The Second Life of Monsieur The Devil
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories
Description: A novelette, "The Second Life of Monsieur Devil", and seven short stories. "The Treasure of Ting Li" comprises short stories set in China, and was published in the Sunday Star, Washington DC, in 1921-22. I can't find any publication since. 1: The Second Life of Monsieur The Devil The Treasure of Ling Ti 2: The Tale of the Tenth Tablet 3: The Emperor's Amulet 4: A Tiger Hilt 5: Red Amber 6: The Ambassador's Ring 7: The Image of Earth 8: Little Tomtit

THE SECOND LIFE OF

MONSIEUR THE DEVIL
and

THE TREASURE

OF TING LI

H Bedford-Jones

2020

Contents

1: The Second Life of Monsieur The Devil

The Treasure of Ling Ti

2: The Tale of the Tenth Tablet

3: The Emperor's Amulet

4: A Tiger Hilt

5: Red Amber

6: The Ambassador's Ring

7: The Image of Earth

8: Little Tomtit

__________________

1: The Second Life of Monsieur The Devil

Blue Book magazine Nov 1920

1

The Hidden Eye

THE pool of sweet water glowed like a round bit of the sky, a round mirror that reflected the clear cerulean blue which the Ch’ien-lung artists hit exactly, and which the K’ang-hsi artists missed with their greenish tinge.

Fifty feet was the diameter of that circle. About it, on all sides save one, ran a thirty-foot strip of white sand, unstained and beautiful as snow. On the one side was stretched an awning of coral-striped canvas, warding the tropical sear of the burning sunlight. Behind this canvas, leading down to it, was an avenue of trees; a thick, green, shady avenue, carpeted with the same white sand, walled by the pineapple-like trunks and the interlaced pinnate fronds of the palms. Under this hot sun Phoenix canarensis throve mightily, and the avenue formed a corridor walled and roofed in green, through which the sun-rays pierced in a tiny lace-work of golden meshes, but robbed of all their strength and heat.

Round about this white sand circle rose a twenty-foot wall of weathered pink stucco. This circular wall was broken by many odd projections and ledges, over which had been trained climbing roses. Just now, the wall was a mass of rich pink foliage that shut out all the world — or seemed to. The only break in this wall was where the avenue of palms lay like a streak of greenish-black shadows pointing away from the pool. On the side opposite this break, was a gate in the wall, a gate as solid as the wall itself. Thus, within this wall was a little world, and the wall shut out all the horizon, and the sea, and those who might intrude upon the little world within.

Yet, in the back of Sigurd was a tiny space the size of a leaf where the magic blood of Fafnir had not touched; and by this tiny space came the hero to his death. Likewise in this wall was a gate, and in this gate, which was seldom opened, was a tiny keyhole. A single swimmer was disporting herself in the pool, making evident its depth by her long dives. She was no marvellous swimmer; still, she enjoyed this pool with the whole-hearted abandon of one who relaxes absolutely to the pleasure of the moment. Against the rippling blue of the water, her body glowed golden. A cap of yellow rubber bound her hair. Tired of swimming, she turned upon her back and floated idly, her figure half revealed, half hidden by the lapping wavelets, her eyes rapt upon the blue sky above. Staring thus into the depths of the sky-bowl, she lay motionless, and presently lost her poise in the water, as one will. Quietly her staring eyes went down under the fluid.

A splutter and cough, and her body flashed. She laughed at her own mischance, and struck out for the shore and the canvas awning. Behind the keyhole, in the gate, came a slight and insignificant flash; as it were, the flash of the sun upon a black and glittering eye which moved to follow her.

The girl came to the shore, and stood up. For a moment the sunlight bathed her figure, painting it a pure golden hue, vibrant and delicate of outline. Then one saw that she was clad in a skin-tight vesture of golden wool— a suit that clothed her slender shape like a glove, revealing every swelling outline, every exquisite curve and shape. Her bare feet splashed in the shallows, and she flung herself forward into the shade of the awning, gathering the warm white sand in about her hips.

For a space she sat there motionless, hands clasped about her knees, gazing at the sky and the pink wall and the blue pool. Suddenly she glanced at the empty avenue of shade, as though moved by some inward impulse. Her hand crept to the shoulder-strap that bound her vesture, and she unbuttoned it. One could easily comprehend the impulse, in this spot so shut away from all the world, to be free of all clinging garments and to plunge gloriously into that blue pool of the sky!

Her one shoulder bared, the girl suddenly paused. There had been no faintest sound, no stir of the warm and listless sunlight; yet she paused, her eyes roving about. One would have declared that she was startled by no physical thing, but by some spiritual intuition. Her gaze dwelt for an instant upon the gate opposite her. It was impossible that she should detect the minute glitter at the keyhole, yet slowly she buttoned the shoulder-strap again. A shrug of her shoulders and she stood up, plunged into the pool, and swam straight across it to the farther side. There she landed and walked up to the gate. She did not attempt to open this, but set her bare feet in the rough stucco and ascended the wall like a golden flame. Her head rose above the ornamented top of the wall; she clung there a moment, watching, a slight frown clouding her clear features.

No one was in sight.

Beyond the wall was ground, solidly sown with tight clusters of lipia-grass, like a greenish gray carpet. Here and there were set trees, in round places cleared of grass; mangoes, clad in massy pink blossom, their leaves like wine-hued ribbons; limes and oranges, scenting the air. A queer medley of trees, here! One or two flame-trees, blood-red in the sunlight, were mingled with the fat deep greenery of figs. And amid the mangoes was that tree with the most rare and wonderful of all tree perfumes, the Chinese magnolia, ivory petals ready to fall.

Around these trees one glimpsed a thick pomegranate hedge, while water ran in rivulets from some hidden source, following channels which seemed haphazard yet which were deeply grooved— the rains were long since over, and a little irrigation hurt nothing. A hundred feet distant, the land dropped sharply away in a thin, sword-like line, and beyond it appeared the sea-horizon. That drop was very abrupt and startling. There was no shore; nothing, in fact, but fifty feet of cliff, with the ocean at the bottom. A strange place, this, beneath the tropic sun!

The girl beheld no living thing in sight, although many men might have lain concealed there before her; and one, in fact, did so lie. She dropped back from the wall into the white sand, swam across the pool again, and came to land. Beneath the awning, she picked up a robe of gossamer silk, wrapped it about her shoulders, and walked up the shady avenue of palms. The frown had vanished from her face, and she sang light-heartedly as she walked.

IN THE garden orchard over which she had just gazed, the brown figure of a man arose from the thick hedge. This man had some excuse for hiding himself, since he was stark naked. The sun had burned him much. Over his head was a thatch of dark red hair, white with brine from the sea-water. His face was flat, broad, powerful without being refined; the black eyes glittering beneath dark reddish brows were alight with an incredible intelligence and energy. His body was bony from hunger and suffering, drawn by long immersion in water, yet very muscular.

This man crept to the gate in the wall and peered through the keyhole. He rose again, a grin upon his lips, and hastened to the nearest rivulet of water. He flung himself down and drank thirstily. Rising, he drew his hand over his lips and glanced at the sun.

“Nine o’clock!” he muttered. “All morning climbing that cliff!”

He cast a malevolent glance toward the cliff and the horizon. Something in his words, in his look, in his appearance, conveyed the idea that he had come out  of the sea below and was now exulting over it in a fiercely triumphant hatred. Yet, to have come from the sea, he must have come from some other land— and there was no other land in sight. When he turned about, one saw that over his naked back, like grids, ran the faint meshes of scars that could have come only from many whippings under the lash. When he walked, it was seen that to a very slight degree “il claudiquait,” as the French say— he showed that he had trailed ball and chain behind him.

On one side of him was that cliff. On two sides were pomegranate hedges, behind which appeared rank tropic shrubbery, with no semblance of order. The irrigating water was a constant seep from the swimming pool, which was therefore fed by under-ground springs.

On the fourth side was the wall, and to this the man turned. He tried to open the locked gate, but its massive strength resisted him. He tried to climb the wall, but fell back and lay in the sand, exhausted by the slight effort.

“Done up!” he muttered. Suddenly his eyes shone.

“There must be a house, eh? Then there must be boats. Done up? Not yet!”

He came to his feet and laughed. That laugh was an effort of the will. He went to the wall, covered on the outside with roses, and searched among these vines. Presently an exclamation of satisfaction broke from him. He stood erect, holding a bit of wire which had been used to fasten the original vines in place. With this wire he went again to the gate, and stooped to the keyhole. In two minutes he touched the gate and it swung open.

He stepped through, closed the gate carefully, and flung himself toward the pool of fresh water, and the avenue of shading palms beyond.

MEANTIME, at the other end of this avenue of palms, was being enacted a quaint idyll in the frailty of human nature and one’s affectionate regard for the muse of science. Who was this muse of ethnologic philosophy, by the way? I, for one, do not know. Yet it is high time that she were tracked down, discovered, named; in these latter days she has many devotees. It is to be doubted if she had any more faithful devotee, however, than Jean Marie Auguste des Gachons.

Once upon a time, and not so very long since, Des Gachons had been a high official in that great colonial realm of France which began with an expedition into Indo-China, reached out grasping fingers until Cambodia on the south and Tonkin on the north were enclosed, stretched forth a thumb into Siam and a little finger into Yunnan, and gripped at an empire. A high official in this empire has many chances at wealth, and Des Gachons thoughtfully neglected none of them. He was a gentle soul, hating the army and colonial politics. When his wife died, and his brother was killed in Tonkin, Des Gachons took his pile and withdrew to devote his life to science and his daughter. And, one must admit, he had chosen a very pretty place for his devotions.

Here was an island, where he reigned as absolute monarch and owner. Crowning this little island, he had built a great rambling house in French Colonial style, where he dwelt with his daughter and his two secretaries, his French gardener, his French chef and boatman, his native servants. Here he was a little emperor, and here he could grow fat and wise in perfect bliss.

Berangère, having dressed after her swim, sought this father of hers. She turned from the wide, shaded colonnade before the house, and passed into the sunken gardens. Here, now that the rains had subsided, Des Gachons had transferred his library and his atelier, into the open air.

The girl paused at sight of the scene which greeted her, a light smile touching her lips. A small amphitheatre had been planted with limes and Chinese magnolias. These trees had been trimmed very high, so that they formed a shady roof over the place— a roof from which was wafted the rarest of perfumes. Below were tables, typewriters, Singapore chairs, a huge round gong to summon servants.

Here sat Des Gachons. He was a great fat man, dreamy of eye, tender of heart, his beard trimmed into two long prongs. He was very vain of this beard, which, in conjunction with his elaborately curled moustaches, gave him the deceptive appearance of a very Porthos. The desk beside him was littered with papers and note-books. At a portable bookcase one young man was diligently searching for some item. Another young man was seated, taking in shorthand the stream of wisdom which flowed from the master’s lips. These two secretaries, naturally, were desperately in love with Berangère, and might as well have been in love with the moon for all the good it did them.

At sight of his daughter, Des Gachons struggled to his feet and bowed. He kissed her cheeks, and the two young men trembled. She dutifully kissed his cheeks, and the two secretaries turned pale. They bowed profoundly as she directed smiling greetings toward them.

“Mon père,” she said, allowing Des Gachons to reseat himself and draw her upon his knee, “I must go to Saigon again, at once!”

The big man’s brows uplifted in Gallic astonishment.

“So soon, Bergeronnette? So soon, when we have just returned to our charming home after spending the entire season of the rains in that little Paris—”

“Exactly,” said the girl. “You see, all six of those frocks I had made, are absolutely impossible! I ordered the sleeves very short, to conform with the newest modes— after cabling to Paris in the matter, too!— and that assassin of a modiste has made them too long! So I must go and attend to it.”

Des Gachons grimaced uncomfortably. “But, my tender little shepherd-girl,” he said, lingering on the diminutive of her name, “but Bergeronnette, you perceive that I must finish this paper—”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Tiens, donc! I am not going to interfere, mon père. I shall take old Paul, who keeps your fleet in order, and we may have the small cruiser, is it not? Three days, and we shall be in Saigon. A week there, and we return.”

“Oh, if you insist! I shall have to go—”

“I refuse to permit it! Am I a child, then? Am I a silly little thing?”

“The good God knows you are not!” Des Gachons stifled a sigh. “But—”

“Never mind the rest.” The girl stooped and planted a swift kiss upon his cheek. “Then we shall leave tonight—”

“If you will wait but two days,” said Des Gachons, with the air of one who is resigned to the inevitable, “I shall have this paper completed, ready for you to mail from Saigon. It must reach the Révue Archéologique at the earliest date, for it completely refutes certain theories of the great Pelliot in the Bulletin de—”

“Very well,” cut in the girl. “Very well. In three days, to give you an extra day of grace! Now I shall not interfere further with your work.”

She withdrew. Des Gachons gazed after her with another of his heavy sighs. The two secretaries echoed the sigh.

“Should she go thus, unaccompanied?” ventured one of them, a mournful hope in his voice. Des Gachons darted a look at the speaker, then smiled dryly.

“Mon brave, when you can take care of yourself as well as this girl — nom d’un nom! I would like to see the man who can handle her! Heaven knows I cannot. Now, where did we leave off with those quotations—”

He resumed his work.

Berangère, meantime, followed a cement walk that led from the house amid its bowers of green; she descended this walk to its precipitous end. She came out upon a small terrace. Directly below her, at some thirty feet, was a small, perfectly enclosed harbor. At the edge of this harbor were boat houses. Anchored in the little port were a large motor cruiser, a smaller and faster model exactly like it, a schooner, tiny in size but perfect in detail. On the sand were a number of whale-boats.

The girl touched a lever at the edge of the cliff, and brought into view an escalier which was moved by an ingenious arrangement of counterbalanced weights. She stepped on to this and set it in motion. It deposited her upon the shore beneath, and from the boat houses appeared an old man wearing a Breton cap, who saluted her respectfully. Berangère danced up to him and kissed his brown cheek.

“In three days, Paul, we go to Saigon, you and I— with the little cruiser!”

“Ciel!” exclaimed the old seaman. “But—”

“Pas un mot, Paul!” exclaimed the girl. “Not a word! And listen: you know that papa was expecting a consignment of brandies from America? We shall bring them back, as a surprise!”

“Heaven knows,” said Paul, with the grumbling air of one who is privileged, “there is a cellar full of liquor up above now! An army could not drink it all.”

“Bah! If it pleases Papa, why not? He says that when all the world has gone dry, this island shall be an asylum for the next thousand years! In three days, remember!”

Paul nodded.

Neither the old Breton nor the girl perceived a slight movement upon the crest of the cliff above, nor the imperceptible glitter of a flashing eye.

Upon the following day, old Paul reported that one of the whaleboats had vanished from the lagoon. No one was missing from the island. The thing was inexplicable, unless the boat had been laid up too low on the shore, and had washed out with the tide. So, they concluded, it must have done.

2

Monsieur le Diable

SAIGON is a city consciously modelled, in general plan, buildings, streets and customs, upon Paris— that is to say, upon the Paris of a generation ago. One may find much in Saigon that is supposedly forgotten in Paris— even to very bad French.

For example, there is a certain Cabaret du Chat Gris, located in the lower part of the city, convenient to the wharfs and railroad and the Arroyo Chinois. Here, for a few cents, one may drink from divers fountains of evil. Here, for a few dollars, one may disappear forever. The cents largely predominate, naturally.

Five men were sitting about a table in the Gray Cat, fingering a greasy deck of cards and drinking execrable red wine. Le Brisetout was a huge uncouth monster of hair and flesh who worked in the nearby abattoir. L’Etoile, a fiery little devil of a man, wore a green patch over one eye; the other orb blazed like a star of green fire. Le Morpion was a human bulldog, bulging of brow and chin, a retired seaman whose hands were knotted and lumpy, and whose glittering little eyes were extremely dangerous.

The fourth man was different. He had come of a finer strain; even in his poverty and dirt he retained a certain grace, a certain debonnaire scoundrelism. His beard was somewhat trimmed, and one conjectured that he might have been a gentleman. His weary and dissipated features held a lingering suspicion of having once been handsome. He had the peculiar skin of one who eats opium, which was not intended by the Creator to be eaten by white men.

The fifth man was dissimilar to all these four.

Like them, he was ragged, unkempt, prone to vicious words. His unshaven features were bony and rugged, his gray eyes were bloodshot. Unlike these others, he was neither French nor of mixed blood, but an American. He had drifted into Saigon, broke, and was working as a labourer at the Quai François Garnier.

Aside from these five at the table, two other persons were in the room. One was the proprietor, who was reading a newspaper across the bar. The other was a man with a dirty bandage about his jaw. He had entered, demanding wine and “de quoi écrire,” and sat at a table in a dark corner. Here, however, he wrote only briefly. He mainly watched the five gamesters and sucked at a long cheroot hungrily, as though drinking the nicotine into his very soul after long abstinence.

“Now, as for me,” said L’Etoile in crisp argot, “I have been at honest work for six months— Laugh, fools, laugh! But it is true. When they took M. le Diable, and sent him to Noumea, I swore that I would turn to honest work until he escaped.”

“Bah!” said Curel, he who might once have been a gentleman. “One does not escape from Noumea!”

“Exactly.” Le Brisetout reached out hairy paws for the cards. “One does not! I know, for I have been there, me!”

There was a laugh. Smith, the American, looked up. “Who is this M. le Diable? I’ve heard you speak of him, but—”

“Yes!” Le Brisetout mouthed an oath. “Who is he, you? We know him not, in Saigon.”

L’Etoile looked at Le Morpion. Between these two men passed a glance of singular meaning. It was Le Morpion who answered, as though in that glance he had read a command.

“Monsieur the Devil? Why, he is Monsieur the Devil— that is all! He is the king of all good rascals and honest thieves. They say that he was an artist, a man of talent, and that something happened to him. You know the crazy artists who lived on Tahiti for years? Something of the sort. At all events, one night in Shanghai— croque! And they had him. They brought him down here for trial and sent him to Noumea for life, the dogs! It was a betrayal.”

“Yes,” said L’Etoile with a certain mournful satisfaction, “it was a betrayal. But the man who betrayed us— I mean the man who betrayed him— confound this wine, it thickens the tongue!— Well, that man died very suddenly the next day.”

“Good enough,” put in Curel languidly. “I hope this M. le Diable escapes. I have heard of him. I would like to meet him. I think that he might break the monotony of life’s facts.”

Le Brisetout glared at the speaker in scorn. “Escape? Bah!” he roared. “No one can escape from Noumea! All around in the hills are brown devils, armed with clubs shaped like— like— well, you know what, you! When one escapes, they beat him nearly to death, then drag him back. And, besides, one cannot swim a hundred miles.”

“Ah! But M. le Diable can,” said L’Etoile with conviction.

“Certainly he can,” said the American. “I can myself. At least, if it were a question of escape from that hell, Noumea!”

The eyes of the bandaged man in the corner dwelt curiously on the face of Smith.

The cards were dealt. The five men fell to their game. Presently it was over, and Curel gathered in the pack. Le Brisetout stretched out one hairy, mammoth paw.

“A hundred miles!” he said, as though recollecting the former train of speech. “Ah! That is clearly impossible, M. Smith!”

Curel’s voice cut in, a bit dreamily.

“I should like to meet this M. le Diable!” he reflected aloud. “Decidedly, the monotony of life is a fearful thing. The facts of life— you apprehend! One desires to get away from facts. How pleasant to be a Bolshevik and abolish all fact!”

L’Etoile, adjusting his green patch, laughed softly. That laugh was like the snicker of steel on steel.

“If you ever meet M. le Diable,” he responded, “you will have no more monotony, my gentleman! As for your facts of life, I know nothing about them. You should have known our M. le Diable — a true artist! No gutter pickings for him. ‘Cré nom!”

“He was an Apache, perhaps?” queried Curel, dealing.

“Devil take me if I know,” said L’Etoile frankly. “He spoke all tongues, had been all places. I have thought at times he might be American or English. One hardly asks him questions.”

“I wish to hell he’d show up here, then,” said Smith roughly. “If I could get away from this cursed town, I’d sell myself to the devil, man or fiend!”

Suddenly the voice of Le Brisetout boomed forth upon them.

“I say it is impossible!”

Smith looked at him. “What now, hairy ape?”

“To swim a hundred miles is impossible!” Rage flooded into the brutish features. “The man who says so lies, and is a—”

The epithet fell. Instantly Smith’s arm flashed across the table and his fist struck Le Brisetout a blow which would have staggered any other human being. This human gorilla, however, only mouthed a curse and flung himself forward. His two immense, hairy paws gripped Smith by the throat. The table was hurled aside in the encounter.

Le Brisetout stood up, still gripping Smith by the throat, and shook him savagely. Then, with swift precision, the hands of the American crept upward. Each hand gripped a little finger of Le Brisetout. Smith gave a sudden heave of his shoulders and arms.

From the hairy giant burst a hoarse cry of agony. He flung his two hands about in the air, tried confusedly to wring them, cried out anew. Smith seized him by the shoulder and kicked him toward the door. Le Brisetout vanished in the street outside, whimpering and groaning. His two little fingers had been broken.

The proprietor turned his uninterested gaze to his newspaper again.

Smith rejoined his companions, laughing easily at their astonishment. Curel put forth a hand to him, with a gesture of pride. Caste, after all, does assert itself.

“Congratulations! It was well done, that; I am glad to be rid of the brute.”

Smith nodded, then glanced at the other two.

“You are not his friends?”

L’Etoile shrugged disdainfully, Le Morpion shook his bulging head.

“His friends? Hardly, my American! M. Curel was dealing, I believe?”

Smith bent to pick up the table. Suddenly L’Etoile, who was glancing at the bandaged man in the corner, turned pale as a ghost. This man had made an almost imperceptible gesture.

The bandaged man made another gesture, this time toward the proprietor— evidently asking if the latter were to be trusted. The jaw of L’Etoile fell. His pallor deepened, but he nodded assent.

From his seat in the corner rose the bandaged man, and stepped forward. He removed his wide hat, to uncover a shock of reddish hair. With a deft motion, he unwound the bandage from about his face. Le Morpion uttered one choking, inarticulate cry, and staggered back as from some awful apparition.

“M’soo— m’soo—”

“M. the Devil,” said the stranger, bowing. “Messieurs, good evening!”

All four stood staring blankly at him. Smith glanced at the two rogues. In their stricken faces he read amazed recognition. It was impossible to doubt that the man before them was the same of whom they had been speaking.

The proprietor quietly came from behind his bar, locked the door, and returned to his newspaper. He was, obviously, a discreet individual.

The silence continued. Smith was well aware of the audacity of this appearance, here in Saigon, the very hub and headquarters of French authority! This M. le Diable would be hunted like a wild beast the instant his escape became known, the instant his presence was suspected!

“When one swims a hundred miles,” and M. le Diable smiled at Smith as though reading his thoughts, “one is naturally given up for dead! And I think,” he added reflectively, “that it was something more than a hundred. Of course, I had assistance at first— a preserver lost from some ship. Providence must have sent it to me— or perhaps my namesake! Yes, decidedly, it must have been my namesake.”

Curel bowed, a trifle mockingly, and spoke in cultured accents.

“Perhaps it is desired that I withdraw? One gathers that M. Smith and I may find ourselves de trop—”

“On the contrary,” responded the other, in equally pure French, “I should be greatly pleased to cultivate your acquaintance, gentlemen.”

Smith picked up the table and set it on its feet.

“The pleasure is mutual,” he said. “Suppose we sit down.”

Le Morpion and L’Etoile dropped into their chairs, still staring at this individual who had come from the dead— or worse, from Noumea! M. le Diable seated himself. Under his thatch of reddish hair, glittered his black eyes. His broad, powerful features were filled with virile energy. He quite ignored his two former followers, and gave his attention to Curel and Smith. The bandage must have served him only as a disguise, for he was quite uninjured.

He spoke in English.

“I am glad we met. These two friends do not understand us, so speak freely,” he said. His voice was level and poised, a voice of refinement and deadly reserve strength. “You first, M. Curel. From your recent conversation, I gather that you are wearied by the monotony of facts. And yet there must be some reason for that boredom, and for your presence here—”

Curel laughed. From his pocket he took a tiny box of opium pellets and laid it before him.

“The reason, M. le Diable? Behold it! In the days of my youth, I was given to liquor. I learned that one who took opium, entertained an aversion to liquor. Hence, to cure myself, I began to take opium in the form of pills. True, the liquor habit was cured; yet—”

M. le Diable threw back his head in a burst of hearty laughter.

“Come, this is rich!” he exclaimed, in tones which would have led Smith unhesitatingly to pronounce him an American. “Devil take me, but this is rich! One overcomes absinthe in order to become an opium fiend! Well, M. Curel, I believe you. This little incident of your career is one of those things which, although perfectly true, would appear incredible to most people.

“If I guarantee to relieve you from the monotony of facts, and place before you an adventure in which no sane man could believe, will you join me?”

“With all my heart,” answered Curel.

“Agreed.” Mr. Devil turned to the American.

“Well, sir? How come you here?”

Smith rolled a cigarette and surveyed his interlocutor whimsically.

“What is this, some Arabian Nights affair? If you want any facts from me, come across with some yourself, first.”

“This is droll!” said the other, smiling. His smile betrayed vividly white teeth, queerly pointed, not unlike the teeth of those Africans who file their incisors to sharp points. His laugh was gay and infectious.

“Droll! One man shrinks from facts; the other demands them!”

Suddenly he fell serious. “I might say that, before my somewhat enforced visit to Noumea, I instructed L’Etoile, who is a faithful soul, to await me at this place and to have with him two or three others. That you are here, is a recommendation, I assure you.”

“Your assurance is a compliment,” said Smith politely. “Who are you?”

Again the other smiled.

“What, still more insistence upon facts? My dear sir, you show little toleration of the modesty which M. Curel shows in the face of these naked facts! I presume you desire a name for me. Well, it would be convenient to have a name, I admit. Therefore I take the name of Lebrun, to be in harmony with the majority. A few moments ago you declared that you would sell yourself to the devil, my Faustus junior. Have a care! Such an invocation may well become an application!”

Curel interposed with a whimsical word.

“This goes well, M. le Diable, I assure you! We are certainly departing from all prosaic facts. I trust you do not claim to be the devil in person?”

“Some have thought so,” responded Lebrun. His black eyes flashed with sombre fire. “Have you any doubts in the matter, M. Curel?”

The other shrugged. “I? Ma foi, none! I am satisfied.”

“Then, pray, do not interrupt.” Lebrun turned to Smith. “Come! Yes or no?”

“To what?” drawled the American.

“To an alliance.”

“Yes, if you like.”

“Agreed. What brought you here?”

Smith puffed at his cigarette. “My feet in the first instance,” and he grinned. “In the second, lack of money. In the third, the interference of the police in my affairs.”

“Ah!” Lebrun regarded him with satisfaction.

“You are wanted?”

“Very badly wanted,” said Smith.

“Shall you have a little money now—”

“I?” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I have plenty!”

“The devil! But you just said the lack of money brought you here —”

Smith grinned at him. “Sure! The lack, you see, made me obtain some; the obtaining it, made me take to my heels; taking to my heels brought me here. Once here, I found it hard to get away. So I am working on the docks until my chance comes to slip aboard a ship.”

“The police here are seeking you?”

“I don’t know. In Tonkin, up north, they certainly are.”

“Very well, gentlemen.” M. le Diable assumed an air of business. “My usual custom is to take one-half the proceeds of our business, and to divide the other half among those who aid me. There will be you four, and a fifth, a lady. No more. Is this satisfactory?”

Both Smith and Curel indicated their assent. Lebrun turned to L’Etoile and Le Morpion, and changed his tongue to the argot they spoke.

“Do you remember, you, the name of the excellent gentleman who sentenced me to spend the rest of my life in Noumea?”

L’Etoile, by far the more adroit of the two rascals, made prompt reply.

“It was Des Gachons— his approval of the papers was almost his last official act. We have often regretted that he left the country before we could interview him.”

“It is just as well.” Lebrun smiled grimly. “Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“But I do.” He rose. “Come with me. You others follow, but not too closely.”

All five of them politely bade the proprietor good night, and issued forth into the street. Smith and Curel were the last to leave. In obedience to the orders of Lebrun, they waited in order to give the other three a slight lead.

At this instant, the American felt his companion touch his arm significantly.

“Damnably clever!” said Curel in English.

“Eh?” Smith glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Only that I happen to recognize you. I remember you now.”

Smith laughed. “So? I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

“As you like. Only, I am very sure that I saw you two months ago, in Hué City, under somewhat different circumstances than these.”

Smith started. “The deuce you did! Then—”

“My dear Smith,” and Curel laughed softly, “why be alarmed? My interest in such a game as this gives me something to live for. Two hours ago, I strongly contemplated suicide. Now, I am eager, full of the joie de vivre!”

“I congratulate you,” said Smith dryly. “None the less, I fear you are mistaken.”

“As you prefer. But I bear by right a 'de' before my name. My ancestor rode to Egypt with Joinville. I think you are no longer alarmed concerning what I know?”

“I never have been,” said Smith cheerfully. “One may be surprised, but not alarmed. Only, if you hinted it to Lebrun—”

“It would make trouble?”

“For Lebrun, perhaps.”

Curel laughed heartily. “You have an astonishing self-confidence! But I shall say nothing of it. I repeat, the game interests me. I have never delved deeply into crime, but now I am grateful for the opportunity. It will be absorbing! You have my promise.”

“Your word’s good with me. Come along— I don’t want to lose the others!”

The two started after their companions.

3

The Engaging of Félice Bonnard

WHEN Berangère des Gachons arrived at Saigon, the government had departed for Hanoi for their six-months’ residence in the north, and she had the southern capital pretty much to her own sweet self. She made the most of it.

No longer was the absence of “the court” regretted, no longer was the pleasant city dull and lifeless. The Rue Catinat picked up in business, and the Boulevard Norodom witnessed the amazing sight of government clerks hastening to work and hastening away. In effect, Berangère not only demoralized the Palais, but the city itself. Brought up in official life, she had no awe of the chiefs of bureau, and if she wanted a trifle of help in a customs affair or any such petty detail, she came straight to the Palais du Gouvernement and cut the red tape.

Berangère was apt to be impetuous, although it must be admitted that she had a way of converting over-hasty impulses into triumphs on the approach of disaster. It had occurred to her that if she provided another objective for the sheep’s-eyes of the two secretaries at home, she might save herself a good deal of annoyance. Accordingly, on the second day of her visit, there appeared in L’Opinion an advertisement which stated that she desired a maid. Many maids, Eurasian, French and native, sought admission to her rooms at the Continental, but none were chosen. At length appeared Félice Bonnard.

It was morning when this application came.

Berangère had breakfasted in her room. She was arrayed in a robe de chambre of gorgeous deep yellow, with boudoir cap to match; she had a penchant for this hue, which well set off her own golden yellow hair, her deep blue eyes, her vivacity of colour. When Félice entered, she perceived at once that she had found her maid.

This Félice was a woman of twenty-odd, very chic, a decided brunette. Her mournful dark eyes held a fund of experience. They were dangerous, those eyes. They marked their owner as one who knew much
of the world from varied angles. Her dress betrayed remnants of taste— real worth fallen upon days of poverty. Berangère saw before her what would be termed in England a “gentlewoman in reduced circumstances.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, motioning to a chair. “You are not exactly the type one would expect to see, Mademoiselle.”

“Madame,” corrected Félice, smiling a little. Her smile was most attractive. “Madame Bonnard, Mademoiselle. My husband was an officer in the army, and was killed at Verdun. We had been married only three months. After that, I nursed. At length I heard of a fine opening here, and came. Now I am in trouble with the authorities, because they do not wish nurses and since  I have no family they say I must go back to France. The opening did not develop. I have no money and no friends. If I could get a position of any sort—”

“Listen,” said Berangère. “I wish a maid, you comprehend? You have pride—”

“When one has nursed the poilus, Mademoiselle, one has no pride; that is, no pride in the old sense. Only pride that one has been of service.”

Well, that was a good answer. It captivated Berangère. She perceived that this woman would have the two secretaries fighting a duel within a fortnight.

“I live on an island,” she said. “There is little companionship. You will be lonely. We spend the rainy season each year here in Saigon. For the remainder of the time, we live on the island by ourselves. We have few visitors, no social life. Consider!”

Félice smiled. “Mademoiselle, I have much to forget.”

Berangère nodded and rose. “Come back this afternoon at three.”

WHEN her visitor had departed, Berangère dressed and summoned a ’riksha. She was whirled out the Boulevard Norodom to the palace, and there impressed an eager and attentive clerk into service.

She started a train of inquiries that took them to the Commissariat Central, then down to the Customs and Revenue office on the quay, and finally ended at the government office in the Rue Lagrandière. Here a smiling official spread before the young lady a dossier which related to the Veuve Bonnard.

“But,” said Berangère, “there is then nothing wrong with her?”

The official spread his hands. “Nothing. But we do not care to have young women come out here alone and without expectancies. In Algeria, you comprehend, that has been done with very unfortunate circumstances— for the young women. And here we are taking much caution and no chances.”

“Tut!” broke in the girl swiftly. “If I engage her, all is well?”

“Of a certainty. Still, as you may see, one knows little about her. It is true that she was given the Croix for her hospital work under fire. But the Croix has gone to Apaches who served la patrie. It might be well to wait, to cable home and inquire—”

“Nonsense!” declared Berangère calmly. “I shall engage her.”

As she spoke, her eye fell upon a paper which lay on the desk of the official. She reached over and picked it up. “What is this? There is a handsome man, monsieur! Tiens— one thousand dollars! What has he done, then, to be worth so much to the government?”

The other shrugged. “Mademoiselle, I do not know. Me, I know nothing of it. The paper came in the official mail from Hanoi, this morning.”

Berangère frowned.“An American and a criminal! This is singular.”

The paper in her hand was one which bore the enlarged picture of a man— not a bad-looking fellow, excellently dressed. The face was full of possibilities. It was a bronzed and rugged face, anything but handsome from the oily and moustached French colonial standard of masculine beauty; a keen and incisive face, rather good-humoured and very calm.

Beneath this picture was the name, “J. Hudson Smith. American,” followed by the information that the governor general would pay one thousand piasters— locally termed dollars— for information of his whereabouts. It was an unusual thing, this circular; the police seldom follow such a system of advertising.

“I shall keep this,” said Berangère coolly. “Some-
where I have seen this man; whether lately or long
ago, I cannot say. But perhaps I shall gain the reward, eh?”

“Could Mademoiselle have the cruelty to deliver a poor wretch of a man to justice?”

She laughed gaily. “That remains to be seen! He must first be found.”

Returning to her hotel, Berangère laid the circular upon her table and forgot it temporarily. In the course of the afternoon, Félice Bonnard appeared, was promptly engaged, and was given enough money to supply herself with a modest wardrobe. Berangère dined out, and attended a band concert in the Jardin Botanique, followed by an evening with friends. When she finally returned home, she noted that the circular about Hudson Smith was gone. Since it was nowhere about the rooms, she concluded that it had been thrown out with the trash and so passed the matter by.

FÉLICE BONNARD was inhabiting a none too pleasant chambre meublée in the Rue Turc. That same evening, she left her room exactly at eight, and was joined outside by a man who had been awaiting her. They walked several blocks without speaking, came at length to the Café de la Terrasse, and took one of the outside tables beneath the tamarind trees. When the waiter had departed with their orders, the man, who revealed himself as a well-dressed person with a rather broad, powerful face crowned by a thatch of reddish hair and adorned by a sprouting red moustache, looked at Félice and smiled.

“Well, dear sister? You succeeded?”

“Perfectly,” answered Félice coolly. “I am engaged.”

The other nodded. “Of course. Who could resist you?”

“You have managed it very well.” Félice regarded him with a flash of cold challenge.

“Ah!” said the man blandly. “But I resist all women, my dear sister—”

“Abandon that term!” she exclaimed with a trace of anger. “I am not your sister, Paul! I do not wish you to speak again in that manner!”

The man laughed amusedly. “Very well, my dear Félice. As you wish.”

The waiter arrived with their orders, and departed.

“Here is something of interest.” Félice took a folded paper from her handbag. “It was lying on the table in the apartment of mademoiselle, so I brought it. The face, you understand, was interesting. Our friend M. Smith seems to be in some demand, and in case you desire to make a thousand dollars at once—”

She concluded with a shrug.

Her companion studied the handbill, then pocketed it.

“I must thank you, Félice, for this thoughtful act. We must leave town immediately.”

“Then you do not want to turn him in?”

Lebrun made a gesture of dismissal. “For a thousand? Bah! We are playing for ten thousand, for a hundred thousand! He is a good man; we need him. It does not matter about your mademoiselle. If she saw this picture, she may recognize Smith on the island. But what of that?”

“When are you leaving?” asked Félice.

“Tonight,” said M. le Diable, reflectively. “Le Morpion, who is a sailor and who perfectly understands navigation, will remain to bring you and Mademoiselle to the island.”

“But she has a man— an old Breton—”

“Oh!” Lebrun laughed softly. “You mean, she had such a one! He was attended to this evening. L’Etoile and Curel tied an anchor to his neck and dropped him over the rail. Trust Le Morpion for the rest, my dear. He is very capable, that one! So is this Curel, also a seaman.”

“You intend to work swiftly or slowly, Paul?”

“Slowly, of course. Who knows what may turn up? There on the island we are safe. There is none to interfere. Why not take our time? This is a case where art is worth more than brute force. Listen!”

Enthusiasm kindled in the broad, powerful features. One saw that those features held not so much a lack of refinement, as a loss of pristine refinement; as though some elder fires of evil had burned out much of the inner man, purging him of conscience and all spiritual things.

“My dear Félice, that island was absolutely made for us; the ensemble is perfect— perfect! No communication with anywhere. A fool of a fat man and his silly butterfly of a daughter. A house filled with artistic, fictitious treasures. A cellar filled with real, factitious treasure; liquor, you comprehend— the most absolute treasure in the world of today. Do you realize that America has ceased to ship liquor to us, that lack of space forbids much being sent from England and France? A cellar filled with liquors can be taken to any port on the mainland and sold instantly, where a cellar filled with gold would only excite queries. You see? Besides, there is the place itself— a magnificent health resort for one so lately undermined by hard work on Noumea, not to mention a difficult escape.”

FÉLICE regarded him with a slight frown. “You mistake,” she said slowly, “when you speak of the girl as a silly butterfly. Here, I grant, she is gay and reckless and merry. But be careful! I think this girl is no fool.”

M. le Diable nodded soberly. “I respect your judgment, Félice. I shall not forget it.”

“Besides, what do you plan for her?”

A sardonic smile tipped his lips as he regarded her. “Ah, you look upon her with jealous eyes? Nonsense! When have you known me to look upon a woman? Never— unless it were you; and sometimes I think that even here I made a mistake.”

She trembled slightly, but her eyes did not waver. “Then, about this girl—”

“Bah! I shall give her as a reward to L’Etoile. Now, by all means neglect no details; remember, I plan to remain on that island for some time. Recuperated, refreshed, enriched, we shall leave there when we wish. Then the world lies before us!”

“Before— who?” asked Félice.

“Before— well, before us two! Is that satisfactory? To your health, Veuve Bonnard! You and I, we shall spend our honeymoon in Japan!”

The woman’s eyes flashed with a singular fire— a fire, one would say, of exultation. She seized and lifted her glass.

“Good! It is a promise, Paul?”

“It is a promise,” the man nodded. “My promises are never broken.”

His glittering black eyes watched her, a terrible gleam in their depths, as she drank; when her gaze returned to him, the gleam was gone.

A man who sat at the adjoining table, and whose eyes had several times fallen upon the face of M. le Diable, rose and departed. He strode along to the Rue Lagrandière, turned down to the middle of the block, and entered the Gendarmerie.

This man came to an office where a light showed, and entered. Inside, he found another man, like himself clad in civilian clothes, who glanced up and nodded from a paper-littered desk.

“Do you remember,” said the new arrival abruptly, “a man who was brought to Hanoi from our settlement in Shanghai— a man wanted for a particularly atrocious murder in Hué City?”

“Paul Adran, alias Lebrun, alias Thomson, alias le Diable — alias everything!” said the man at the desk, without hesitation. “Suspected of being an Englishman or American. He was sentenced to Noumea for life; sentence approved by Des Gachons and appeal denied. He was transported. Well?”

“I thought tonight,” said the newcomer reflectively, “that I saw him sitting at a table of the Café de la Terrasse. I only saw M. le Diable once, so I am not certain, yet—”

The other smiled. “My dear fellow, absolutely impossible!”

“All the same, let us have the Noumea report that came in two days ago.”

Ten minutes later, the man at the desk read aloud a sentence.

“Drowned in attempting escape,” he said. “I trust this satisfies you?”

“Evidently.” The bearded one sighed. “Evidently! What about this American, this man Smith? The information that he was believed to be here in Saigon—”

“Was correct.” The man at the desk glanced up, nodded. “I found this afternoon that he had been here, had been employed as a labourer at the quay.”

“Had been?”

“He vanished from sight two days ago.”

The newcomer made a gesture of resignation.

“Not just Smith has vanished, then, but a thousand dollars, which is more to the point.” He picked up several official cables and telegrams, and began to open them. “Ah!” His voice again drew the eyes of the man at the desk. “Here is word from Hanoi! We must look out for two men, known as L’Etoile and Le Morpion— descriptions given. Also a request from the governor-general himself that we leave nothing undone to locate the man Smith. Devil take it! Who is this American, and what has he done? Why do they send us no details?”

The other man shrugged his shoulders.

“Who knows? But we may find him. Five of our best men are going over the lower end of the city at this hour. What about the two who are wanted?”

“A murder and robbery in Hanoi. See that the bulletins are copied and posted in the hall at once. With luck, we may pick up all three before dawn.”

At this precise moment, the men under discussion were engaged in getting supplies aboard a whaleboat which lay at the wharf, not a hundred yards from the Customs house.

4

When a Star Falls a Soul Has Passed

LEBRUN had taken in charge the whaleboat, which was moored openly at the Messageries wharf on the river. Presumably, the palm of the quay watchman had been gilded, to prevent interference. Curel and Smith were handing down provisions and boxes, while in the boat L’Etoile and Le Morpion stowed them away. Smith had known M. le Diable twenty-four hours, yet he had not the least idea of where they were going or what they were going to do. If his companions knew, they said nothing to him. Smith had not shared in the removal of Paul, the Breton boatman, but Curel had participated in that murder, with his usual bored air.

Suddenly, an indistinct figure appeared from the shadows of the godowns, darted forward and engaged in a low conversation with Lebrun. The figure darted away and was gone again. Lebrun came to the boat and spoke, addressing the two men below.

“Messieurs! The police are looking for you gentlemen. Le Morpion, you will have to go with us instead of remaining here.”

There was a sound of hearty oaths from below. Monsieur the Devil took the arm of Curel and drew him to one side. He spoke in a low tone.

“You told me that you had been in the navy. You can navigate?”

“Perfectly,” said Curel. “That is, if I have opium. My pills are gone, and I can find only pipe outfits—”

“I know, I know,” said Lebrun impatiently. “You who eat, cannot smoke, eh? Very well; I have a supply of pills ready for you. You must remain and take charge of that Des Gachons boat— apply for the job. Félice will make things easy for you, if you tell a convincing lie. If you cannot do it,  then the devil take you! I want no inefficient ones.”

“Oh, I’m scoundrel enough for anything,” said Curel philosophically.

“You had better be,” said Lebrun dryly. “We must get out of here at once. M. Smith! The police are in search of you!”

Smith chuckled as he joined them. “Not for the first time. I like this way of leaving town, too— right under the noses of the customs people, from the biggest wharf in the city!”

“Always audacity,” quoted Lebrun, with a soft laugh and a glance at the lights of the nearby Customs house. “Everything is stowed? Very well. We must get down the river and be off Cap St. Jacques before daylight. Curel, can you accomplish your share?”

“If I have the opium.”

Lebrun handed him a package. “Then, au revoir, and the devil’s luck! Down with you, Smith, we’re off this instant!”

SMITH climbed down into the boat; its mast was already stepped. He joined L’Etoile. Behind them sat Le Morpion. Monsieur the Devil came down, cast off the lines, and took his position in the stern at the tiller.

“Up with the sail, once we are in the tide,” he ordered softly. “Watch for police boats!”

The craft floated silently out into the current of the river. It merged into the mists that writhed slowly about the surface of the muddy water, and then it was gone into the night, absorbed. Curel gazed after it for a little, then turned and walked away, tearing at the package of opium with fumbling fingers. A queer smile was set upon his dissipated face, the smile of one who sees in prospect some very singular events. The four men in the whaleboat went down the river without hindrance. Lebrun conned the lights and steered their course; once they passed within thirty feet of a gay Fluviales steamer, whose bright lights flooded them with brilliancy. Lebrun waved
ironically at those who lined the rail, as the searchlight touched him. It seemed to occur to none of the four that they were doing a remarkable thing in thus setting out to sea in a whaleboat, bound on an errand which could hardly be philanthropic in nature. Perhaps Curel, who so hated facts, regretted that he was not with them in this mad fantasy.

When dawn heaved up out of the ocean, the whaleboat was skimming along beneath a brisk wind. The river and its narrow, widening entrance had fallen behind. To the east was a faint blur upon the horizon— Cap St. Jacques.

Lebrun headed the boat into the south, steering by a compass which lay beside him. This remarkable man was not questioned by his companions as to his navigating ability; one takes for granted that M. le Diable can do anything.

A little afterward, the four breakfasted. Then Lebrun gave over the tiller to Le Morpion, who crouched above it like a bulging-jawed dog, and lay down to sleep upon some canvas. As he stretched out, he glanced at Smith and put one hand into his pocket.

“Here is something that may interest you,” he said, and handed Smith the folded paper which he had received from Félice, and which Félice Bonnard had taken from the table in the room of Berangère des Gachons. Then he closed his eyes and slept.

Smith, sitting beside L’Etoile, glanced at the paper and smiled sardonically. He took out his pipe and lighted it. Certainly, he reflected, this picture of J. Hudson Smith, shaven and trimmed and collared, looked very unlike the Smith who he was now— the dirty-jawed ruffian bound for he knew not where!

The paper fell from his hand as he puffed. L’Etoile bent over, caught it as it fluttered. He saw the picture, and his one blazing eye opened wide in astonishment as he read at a glance the heavy lines of type below.

“Name of a dog!” he ejaculated softly, lifting his eye to Smith. “This— why, this ventre-bleu looks like you!”

Smith laughed. “Thank you, my friend. Looks are not deceiving.”

L’Etoile started. “You— why, it’s not possible! I know who this man Smith is— at least, I heard in Hanoi that he—”

Here, all in an instant, Smith perceived disaster leaping at him. His face hardened.

“You don’t know everything!” he said in a low voice. “Be careful!”

L’Etoile was so utterly taken aback by astonishment, that for an instant he could only stare, incredulous.

“But— why, I never connected you with him! This dog of hell is the one who—”

Smith’s fingers gripped his arm.

“Be careful!” said Smith quietly. He realized that Le Morpion, who could hear nothing of what they said, was gazing at them curiously. “Be careful, I warn you!”

From L’Etoile broke a sudden bursting snarl of fury.

“You— hell be kind to you!” he gasped. “So this is your game, is it—”

The hand of Smith tightened on his arm. But the other arm moved, flashed, drove in and out like the head of a striking snake. The other hand of Smith was in his jacket pocket. That pocket vomited a splash of red flame, gave vent to a single smashing report. From Le Morpion came a hoarse, inarticulate bellow. The figure of Lebrun leaped straight upright, pistol in hand. But there was no need. L’Etoile had fallen back against the corner of thwart and gunnel. His two hands were clasped about his throat, and through the fingers seeped a dreadful tide of bubbling crimson. A knife had fallen from his fingers into his lap. His one blazing eye stared for a moment at Lebrun, his lips were open and vainly trying to utter a word. Then his lips closed, his one eye fluttered shut, and he fell back in limp death.

Smith sat motionless, his left hand bringing a pistol into sight. Over his face was creeping a deathly pallor. His eyes went to Lebrun.

“What’s this?” crackled the latter’s voice.

“We disagreed,” said Smith. “You’ve lost L’Etoile. Don’t ask questions, you fool! You’ll lose me if you don’t give me— a hand— quick!”

His right hand, pressed against his side, came away red. L’Etoile’s knife had bitten him. Then, quietly, he laid down the pistol and doubled forward, unconscious.

“He shot L’Etoile!”cried out Le Morpion, his voice terrible. One would have said that this scoundrel, this unspeakable ruffian, was pierced by grief for his dead comrade in sin. “He shot L’Etoile—”

Lebrun gestured for silence.

“Don’t be a fool, you! What caused the quarrel?”

“I couldn’t hear. They were talking. L’Etoile snapped with his knife—”

“And paid for it,” said Lebrun. “I am sorry. But this fellow Smith— did you note how he used his brains? Said I’d lose him if I didn’t act! Clever, I call it. He knew that I couldn’t afford to lose two at once. Keep your hands off him, understand? This man is worth a hundred. He has more brains than L’Etoile.”

“How about me?” grunted Le Morpion.

“You’re a friend. He’s a mercenary. Besides, he is to be blamed for our future sins.”

Le Morpion saw sense in this, and said no more, although his eyes were very dark and evil.

MEANTIME, Lebrun was bending over the figure of Smith. Removing jacket and shirt, he laid bare the side — white, firm skin marred by an ugly gash that welled slow blood. Then, and coolly enough, Lebrun searched the unconscious man from hair to socks; searched him thoroughly, carefully, unhurriedly. Whatever the object of his search, it was unattained. He replaced everything.

After this, he gave his attention to the wound, which was not serious. He bound it very deftly, replaced shirt and jacket, and left Smith to recover of his own volition. He picked up the body of L’Etoile, poised it a moment at the boat’s edge, and sent it overboard.

“A good friend, a faithful friend, an honest friend!” he said, gazing out after the bobbing speck. Yet, perhaps, the words were sardonic; there was a queer gleam in his black eyes as he gazed.

“What brought it on?” demanded Le Morpion sulkily. “What caused it?”

Monsieur the Devil shook his head. “Who knows? Waken me when this man opens his eyes. Touch him not. Speak not. Only— waken me.”

With this, he took his former place on the canvas, and appeared to fall asleep at once.

The morning wore past in magnificence of solitude, the sun blazing in the sky, the ocean all blue-green and desolate, empty of ships. The whaleboat skimmed on and on, pushed steadily by the crisp breeze, Le Morpion steering her skilfully and cunningly. Once or twice, when his eyes wandered to the inert figure of Smith, the sail wavered, for he was steering by the wind rather than by compass. The seas swung past endlessly, the foam hissing and swirling under the lee rail to bubble out behind in a thin wake. On the canvas, Lebrun slept, an arm over his face; above the tiller crouched Le Morpion, watching, always watching.

Then, suddenly, the eyes of Smith opened. Le Morpion was gazing upward at the moment. Like the Indian who does not see the waving grass yet perceives something amiss with Nature’s ordering, this man perceived the movement. An inarticulate word came from his lips. Instantly, Lebrun sat up and gazed at Smith; he was wide awake, speaking, even as he sat up. One would have thought that he had slept with the words breaking on his lips, so swiftly did he speak.

“Ah! Smith, what did you and L’Etoile quarrel over?”

Smith, equally alert, was conscious that much time had passed since the affray. He saw danger in the question. He read danger in the intent gaze which Le Morpion bent upon him.

“Quarrel?” he responded. “I remember now— why, there was no quarrel! He drew a knife and struck; I shot him.”

“Ah!” said Lebrun calmly, regarding him. “Well, let it pass. You are thirsty? There is water beside you.”

NO MORE WAS said. None the less, Smith was subtly aware that he had not given the right answer. He felt intuitively that he had bungled somehow; yet he was too thirsty to care. He got the water and drank. Lebrun went to sleep again.

After some time, Lebrun awakened and took the tiller while Le Morpion crawled up forward, munched some biscuit and curled up in slumber. Smith stared up at the calm gaze of Monsieur the Devil, and voiced the question that was bothering him.

“Where are we going?”

Lebrun’s black eyes glittered on him reflectively. “To an island. To a place of vengeance. There is a man whom I hate, whom I shall kill; then we take his possessions. His name, Des Gachons.”

The eyes of Smith widened a trifle.

“Des Gachons!” he repeated in a low voice. Lebrun regarded him attentively. “What? You know him?”

Smith feebly shook his head. “No. But he may know me.”

“No. He has been out of official affairs for quite a long time. He will not know that you are wanted, that there is any reward for you. Nor will he know me, since he never saw me; although he might have seen my picture. We must chance that.”

“I’m not worried about you,” said Smith. “But when he knew me, I was employed by the government.”

“Ah!” said Monsieur the Devil calmly. “This is news. In what capacity?”

Smith allowed his head to droop for an instant. He was lying now, and lying artistically; he was not so weak as he seemed. Still, there was not great strength left in him.

“If I told you, then you would consider it a lie.”

“None the less,” said Lebrun, regarding him, “I would advise you to tell me.”

There was something deadly in these words.

“I was an engineer— of construction. With the new railroad. Not long ago, I needed money— I made a mess of things, but got away.”

Lebrun nodded. “Then you got the money?”

“I have five thousand dollars in my belt.”

Lebrun had discovered this money in his search. He nodded his head.

“Very well. Now go to sleep— there will be no difficulty about Des Gachons.”

The matter was closed. None the less, Smith retained an uncomfortable conviction that he had somehow bungled. Not in words, perhaps, but in some detail— a glance, a gesture!

However, there was nothing to be done about it now, and he dropped off to sleep.

5

It Is Dangerous to Invoke the Devil

J . HUDSON SMITH, lying in the boat or sitting propped against his rolled jacket, spent several uncomfortable, painful and reflective days. His wound was developing badly; had taken on a touch of fever which made Lebrun frown over the dressings. Lebrun was a good surgeon, deft and cunning in the fingers. This man seemed a good everything. A good navigator, certainly. He guided the whaleboat over the waste of waters without help from Le Morpion, and with unerring certitude. There were charts and instruments in the boat. During these days, Smith learned for the first time, from conversation and scattered hints, how Lebrun had come to find the island owned by Des Gachons.

The American could guess at much of the story which remained untold— much at which even M. le Diable himself seemed now to reluct in thought and word. It was an odyssey fit for the devil himself! Bad enough was the escape from that infernal paradise, Noumea; the escape, tinctured with blood and desperation, imbued with images of savage, naked brown men, of weary-eyed guards, of the night swim past the ships and that little island which sits in the jaws of the harbor and vomits the shrieks of tortured humanity. Worse yet was the sequel, the tossing for days and nights upon  a crazy raft of brush, the finding of a life-buoy lost from some ship or some corpse, the savage persistency of spirit which held the failing body ever to its work. After this, the island; the last flickering effort of the iron will, and safety. Following upon these things, the flame of vengeance toward the man who had finally succeeded in sending him to the penal colony.

Smith realized that he was going to be in a bad way unless his wound quickly received antiseptic treatment; but he fought down the fever and held his peace. He had little to do but study his companions. Le Morpion possessed a good deal at bottom; a sullen brute, yet capable withal, and extremely cunning. But the other, this Monsieur the Devil — here was a man not to be fathomed or understood! Mentally abnormal beyond doubt. Somehow warped into a career of undiluted deviltry. In brief, an enemy of society.

Then, at last, the unceasing monotony of sky and sea was broken; in that long sword-like line of the horizon appeared a slight nick. This came at sunset. With dawn, the nick had grown into a green smudge, and by noon the whaleboat was off the entrance to the island harbor.

Here Lebrun delayed purposely. There was evident commotion ashore; the small cruiser taken to Saigon by Berangère had not yet returned. The whale-boat came slowly in toward the curving crescent of beach, where, in obvious agitation, Jean Marie Auguste des Gachons was marshalling his forces to receive the unexpected visitors.

The escalier was working fast; the two secretaries, the gardener, the chef, and several native servants appeared on the beach, and Des Gachons stood at their head. Lebrun, smiling thinly, directed the boat to the sand at his very feet.

SMITH watched and listened sardonically. Was it possible that the judge would not recognize the criminal? True, Lebrun was changed now; the reddish moustache altered his entire appearance, nor was there anything of the criminal in his bearing. Quite the contrary.

“Who are you?” boomed out Des Gachons, theatrically. His pose was majestic.

Lebrun leaped out to the sand, drew in the prow of the boat, turned, and rendered an elaborate bow. “Monsieur,” he said gravely, “you see before you three shipwrecked unfortunates. I am a humble devotee of ethnology, mineralogy, and the scientific arts; Paul Lebrun by name, an unsuccessful aspirant for the Prix Goncourt in times past, and for some years a student of the sciences of China.”

Before he could proceed further, Des Gachons advanced with open arms and tendered him a warm Gallic embrace. “Colleague, I welcome you!” he exclaimed sonorously. “You have come to a good house of hospitality. I, too, am something of a savant in my unworthy way; Des Gachons by name—”

“What!” exclaimed Lebrun, drawing back in astonishment. “Not the author of that admirable and learned treatise upon the ethnologic significance of the lamaic rosaries?”

“The same,” admitted Des Gachons modestly.

“Then it is a kindly fate which has drawn us to your shore!” cried Lebrun. “To think that I have touched the hand of this master! I am overcome! But I forget our friends. Allow me to present to you an American gentleman, a fellow passenger on our hapless coasting steamer — Monsieur Smith. He was hurt during a wild scramble for the boats, you comprehend. And this is one called Le Morpion, an excellent seaman, to whose care and skill we all owe our lives.”

“Ah!” said Des Gachons briskly. “A wounded man? Monsieur, have no fear! We shall care for you excellently! We have guests; that is admirable! I welcome you!”

It was at this point that Smith gave way suddenly; the over-tensed nerves, the overstrained muscles, collapsed. He realized that he was burning with fever, and fell asleep. The words that had formed upon his lips remained unuttered....

When he wakened, it was to find himself lying in a bed. The room about him was, to his disordered senses, a room of some eastern palace. Real furniture, real paintings on the walls, real flowers at the window! He was in a guest room, of course. What made it more terribly real, was Le Morpion sitting beside him, watching.

And Le Morpion stayed there, as though he had orders to this effect.

A day had passed, thought Smith; it was another morning, and the fever was gone out of him. He did not try to speak. He lay silent and unmoving; as he lay, there came voices from outside the open window, which in fact overlooked the sunken garden. They were the voices of Des Gachons and Lebrun. Their host, gathered the American, was about to show Lebrun over his island estate. To this M. de Diable objected for a moment.

“One thing, dear colleague!” he protested. “I wish your opinion upon a vexed point. For some time I have been studying the question of turquoise in China— a most interesting problem!”

“Most interesting, indeed,” agreed the voice of Des Gachons. “Well?”

“You are aware that the stone is unknown in many provinces of China,” pursued Lebrun, proving himself master of some astonishing knowledge. “Indeed, it is regarded as pertaining to barbarians; it did not enter imperial circles until the K’ien-lung period of the Chings. It was regarded as a form of petrified or transformed fir, as is indicated by its present name of lu sung shi or 'green fir-tree stone.' Yet we know that Marco Polo —”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Des Gachons eagerly. “He spoke of the monopoly—”

“I am coming to that. My theory is that the stone was introduced under the Mongol emperors, and that its mining and use was broken up during Ming times, not to be revived until the recent K’ien-lung period. I base this theory on the fact that the earliest word for the stone is tien-tse, occurring in the Cho-keng-lu, published in 1366. Therefore —”

The voices drifted off and became indistinct.

Smith saw Le Morpion glance at the window, a dark smile hovering about his ugly lips.

Smith saw nothing of his host. As the hours passed, native servants appeared, but Le Morpion never left the room. One would have fancied this man utterly devoted to the wounded American; but in this devotion, Smith read a sinister significance. Very possibly Le Morpion was here to guard against any delirious babbling.

The native servants of the establishment numbered three. They were a man and two women, brown creatures who spoke French after a fashion, and who had been fetched from the mainland. They were ignorant and timorous creatures, quite devoid of any graces or civilized culture; the man and his two wives had been brought here to serve, and they served— that was all. As for the polygamous aspect of the case, in these days when one can get servants at all, one does not inquire too closely into their private lives, n’est ce pas?

LEBRUN, on this fine morning, had terminated his argument anent turquoise, and was accompanying his host upon a walk about the place — a walk which was destined to terminate very unhappily for Jean Marie Auguste des Gachons.

This simple and honest-hearted fat man was supremely happy. To have his little paradise invaded by three unfortunates to whom he could give shelter and aid, was a pleasure. To find that one of these men was a fellow savant, a person of discernment and much ethnologic lore, was a delight. To find himself recognized as a master, deferred to, regarded with awe and honour, was a supreme happiness.

So Des Gachons accounted himself fortunate, and devoted his energies to showing Lebrun about the place. First came the house itself; a house built not for show, but for living in. The cellars were exhibited with some complacency— indeed, there was a stock of liquors in them which was now worth a small fortune alone! The kitchen, under its French chef, an excellent man with a brain like that of an ox in all things save food. The collections in their cases— jewels and rare works of art from all the eastern coasts; an excellent array of gilded bronzes, champlevé and cloisonné from China, and some magnificent porcelains. If Des Gachons made his money in princely fashion, he had also spent it in the same way.

After the house, the exterior, with the old gardener proud of his work; the establishment was on display, and all recognized it. And at last, ignorant that his visitor knew the way no less than he, Des Gachons took Lebrun down the avenue of palms to the swimming pool.

This was now the same as when he had first looked upon it, except that there was no golden figure aflame in the sunlight. The two men circled that pool of cerulean blue, Des Gachons opened the gate in the wall, and they passed to the fantastic little orchard, with the cliff and the sea beyond.

Here Des Gachons paused, and sighed as he surveyed the place.

“This was planned for the hot days, my friend,” he said, waving his hand about the orchard. “You comprehend, one visits the pool, which is fed by springs; then one comes out here beneath the trees with a book, perhaps, and sits on the cliff and watches the sea. I must set about building the little summer-house which I have planned, to perch just here on the edge of  the cliff.”

HE INDICATED the spot. The two men stood there at the verge, and gazed on the sparkling waters beneath. Perhaps Lebrun was thinking of how he had come here first, naked and perishing; how he had struggled up this cliff to the place where they now stood. His eyes were sombre as he regarded that cliff.

“One does not miss the city here,” said Des Gachons, pulling at his pronged beard and looking vastly complacent. “It was work, of course, building all this; vessels and labourers and architects, you understand. But now— it is a paradise!”

“It is indeed,” said Lebrun in a low voice. “But do not forget, my friend, that into the earthly Paradise came Satan!”

Des Gachons regarded him with a smile. “What do you mean, then?”

Lebrun took a cheroot from his pocket and lighted it, leisurely.

“I have some knowledge of which you may be ignorant,” he said. “Do you remember having passed upon the sentence of a criminal who was called M. le Diable?”

Des Gachons frowned, considered, and at length uttered an exclamation.

“Ah, yes! Tron de l’air!” Like the immortal Tartarin, this fat man was also of the south. “M. le Diable! Of course; the man was a hardened criminal, a degenerate bit of humanity, who was caught by our people in Shanghai. He had committed atrocious murders in the province. He was said to be at the head of a band of desperate Apaches. I remember very well. It gave me tremendous satisfaction to be rid of such a person— he was sent to Noumea for life. One does not live long in Noumea, you comprehend.”

“Exactly,” said Lebrun in a dry tone.

“It was most unfortunate,” reflected Des Gachons, “that this man alone was taken, and not all the members of his gang. I remember recommending most urgently to my successor that no pains be spared to hunt down and root out every branch of this evil tree! But, my friend, what caused you to bring this criminal to memory?”

“Because,” said Lebrun, “I heard recently that he had escaped from Noumea.”

Des Gachons started. His ruddy countenance blanched slightly.

“Impossible! No man can escape from Noumea; one dies there, but escapes— never!”

“No man, perhaps,” said Lebrun calmly. “But Monsieur the Devil — that is another matter entirely! However, there are two versions of the story. One that he escaped; another, that he died in Noumea and came to life elsewhere. Are you interested in hearing them?”

Des Gachons stared at him. “But— but— you are saying incredible things!”

“Incredible? Nothing is incredible, when one believes in a personal devil!” returned Lebrun. His smile was, as the French say, “sourd”— a coldly disdainful, inexpressible smile. “One story goes that he escaped by sea, and that the sea brought him to this island.”

Des Gachons started again, this time more violently. From his pallid lips was wrung a low cry.

“This— this is some jest, monsieur?”

“On the contrary, unfortunately,” said Lebrun.

“The story says this criminal came here, stole one of your boats, and departed.”

“The whaleboat!”cried Des Gachons. “The whaleboat that was missing!”

“Exactly. This M. le Diable took your boat and departed. He went to the mainland, found the remnants of his old gang, and planned a razzia upon your island. Probably he did not regard you with any feeling of gratitude —”

Des Gachons staggered, his face pale as the dead.

“Incredible! This— this is some frightful lie—”

“Possibly.” Lebrun made a calm gesture of assent. “The other story runs that he died in Noumea. Well, he died— and he came to life again later. You understand? The devil could hardly die, my dear monsieur; at least, the life after death of M. le Diable would be most fascinating to contemplate, from the stand-point of science, is it not? Still, in either case we arrive at the same conclusions; namely, that he would come to interview you—”

“Devil fly away with me!” ejaculated the other, thickly.

“Precisely.” Lebrun bowed. “I am M. le Diable, at your service. Let us fly, by all means!”

He threw away his cheroot and approached Des Gachons, upon his lips a terrible smile.

6

Queer Things Occur in the Kitchen

SMITH and Le Morpion were alone in the room, shortly after noon, when Lebrun joined them. M. le Diable took a chair beside the bed and inquired with solicitude after the patient.

“I’m all right,” said Smith. “A bit weak, naturally.”

Lebrun nodded. “Very good! You are hungry?”

“Somewhat. What’s the matter with luncheon?”

“Nothing; I have just come from the kitchen, and I assure you that an excellent meal is waiting. A very excellent meal, in fact!”

The trifling detail that Lebrun had just come from the kitchen, quite escaped the attention of J. Hudson Smith at the instant. Before he could respond, the figure of one of the secretaries appeared in the doorway.

“Ah, M. Lebrun! Your pardon— the chef told me that you had returned— luncheon is served, monsieur! Can you inform us where M. des Gachons has vanished to?”

Lebrun smiled. “I can, monsieur. He is at this moment located near the cliff beyond the swimming pool, and is contemplating a serious poem upon immortality, after the manner of M. Ronsard. He requests that luncheon go forward without awaiting his coming; as for myself, I shall remain here to watch the condition of my patient, if you will be good enough to send me something on a tray. Le Morpion, do you wish to be relieved?”

Lebrun turned as he asked the question. Perhaps he made an imperceptible sigh; at all events, Le Morpion shook his sullen head.

“I remain also,” he said.

“Very well, messieurs,” said the secretary respectfully, and vanished. Lebrun rose and shut the door. Then he bowed mockingly toward it, and turned, a thin smile upon his lips.

“This poem upon which our host is working,” he said, “will be a famous thing, I assure you! The only trouble is that it will never be finished.”

Le Morpion looked up suddenly, a queer gleam in his eyes.

“ ’Cre nom!” he ejaculated. “Then — you have struck?”

“I have struck,” said Lebrun, his voice sombre. “I have struck— from top to bottom!”

A peculiar exultation appeared in his broad, powerful features; a singular look of mingled ferocity, exhilaration, and gloomy satisfaction. Smith half raised himself upon one elbow.

“You—” He paused, wetting his lips. “You mean—”

“I am avenged,” said Monsieur the Devil. “Des Gachons, standing at the verge of a cliff, became ambitious to emulate Daedalus in flight. Well, he flew! But as he had neither the wings of Daedalus, nor the faith of Saint Peter, he could neither remain in the air nor upon the sea. In fact, the devil flew away with him!”

Lebrun turned. “Le Morpion, there is one whom you must handle: the gardener. He is now at work in the garden. He does not eat in the middle of the day; hence, I assign him to you!”

Le Morpion nodded and rose. He made a curt gesture, and strode from the room.

SMITH sank back upon his bed, his hands clenched beneath the covers. Des Gachons— dead! The thing was incredible, fearful beyond words! There had been no chance to give warning.

“M. American,” said Lebrun, standing beside the bed and regarding Smith attentively, “you appear overcome by this news!”

“I am,” said Smith steadily. He looked up into the glittering black eyes; they smiled down at him almost frostily.

“Well, you understand that with me everyone must earn his keep? You have done nothing; you can do nothing, at least for a day or two. Therefore, your value to me must lie only in the future. I have decided what to do with you.”

It occurred to Smith that he was to be murdered immediately. “Yes?” he drawled. “May I be pardoned a touch of curiosity, then?”

Lebrun chuckled. “I have decided to give you a wife.”

“Ah! There is an Eve in this Garden of Eden?”

“There will be,” said Lebrun, “by tonight; or so I calculate. Curel should arrive tonight beyond question. You shall have a wife; une vierge charmante, and you shall console her for the loss of her father. This will, of course, be besides the division of the spoils.”

He made a gesture, and turned away. Smith lay with his eyes closed, not daring to speak, lest he disclose a more agile brain than Lebrun gave him credit for. He perceived clearly that he had been picked to bear the brunt of this entire adventure. Lebrun, perhaps, did not wish the death of Berangère des Gachons; he planned to bestow this human spoil upon Smith, whom he already knew to be badly wanted by the authorities. Then he would see to it that Smith was apprehended — a scapegoat. It was an excellent plan. The only flaw in it was that Smith was not exactly the person whom Lebrun supposed him to be.

THE door opened. One of the native servants entered, bearing a tray. This tray was set upon a rolling table, and the table brought to the bedside. The servant placed a chair for Lebrun, who nodded, and then left the room.

“Go with my blessing to what awaits you!” murmured M. le Diable. Then, bending above the tray, he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. “Ah, an admirable chef! Here we have bondons au lait, beignets aromatisés — above all, excellent curried rice. Superb, this rice!”

From the tray, Lebrun picked the last-named dish, the pièce de résistance of the luncheon. Removing the large silver cover, Lebrun lifted this dish and carried it to the window. There he paused, looking out into the garden. Smith watched his actions in puzzled wonder.

“Does it occur to you,” reflected Lebrun aloud,  “that M. des Gachons populated this island with birds? A charming touch of sentiment! Yet it is inevitable that when the master falls, the entire establishment falls with him.”

So saying, he hurled the dish through the open window.

For an instant it seemed to the American that this man must have gone mad. No other explanation of this astounding conduct came to him. Without comment, Lebrun returned to his place and sat down, pouring the wine.

“I believe there is enough remaining for us all,” he observed. “Come, my dear Smith! You have a very romantic name. Would it be indelicate in me to hint that it might be assumed?”

Smith grinned faintly and took the glass of wine handed him. The port brought swift colour into his cheeks.

“It’s my own name, all right,” he returned, forcing himself to ignore that he sat face to face with the murderer of Des Gachons. “That’s more than you can say, eh?”

“TOUCHÉ! A fair hit.” Lebrun chuckled. “Eat, and grow strong! I’ll have need of your muscles in a week or so. We shall want to have everything loaded up aboard that big motor cruiser down below, in case any unexpected thing turns up and makes us run for it. With this work done, we shall compose ourselves, unworried. So, eat!”

Smith obeyed the order, in silence. The frightful sang-froid of this man was threatening to unnerve him, and he knew that he must struggle against such an event. He himself was helpless to act in any capacity; whatever befell, he could do nothing— yet.

It had been his intention to warn Des Gachons at all costs; he had never imagined that Lebrun would strike so swiftly and terribly. The knife of L’Etoile had been a far better friend to him than Lebrun dreamed!

The thought of Berangère des Gachons appalled the American with its possibilities. He had picked up enough by this time to know why Curel had stayed behind; yet, strangely enough, the thought of Curel gave him hope. This man, at least, was not the devil Lebrun had proved!

IN THE midst of these reflections he heard a staggering step outside the door. The door opened, and Le Morpion came into the room — came into the room and halted, swaying a little as he stood, one hand pressed against his thigh.

“Well, master,” he said gruffly, “it is done.”

Lebrun sprang to his feet. “What? You are hurt?”

Le Morpion, smiling grimly, removed the hand from his thigh, to betray a rush of crimson.

“Not hurt,” he responded, “but a trifle nicked. The fool tried to prune me with his shears, and got a fair start before I wrung his neck. Work for you, master!”

He half fell into the chair that Lebrun shoved at him, and began to bare his thigh.

So, the gardener murdered! How far did Lebrun mean to carry this infernal work? A cold horror gripped upon the American as he watched the scene. M. le Diable fell to work upon the wound— a rather bad gash across the hip. It would have to be sutured; bidding the imperturbable Le Morpion hold the wound and await his return, Lebrun rose and vanished hastily from the room.

He had been gone only a short while, when from somewhere within the house cracked the burst of a pistol-shot, followed by silence. Le Morpion quivered slightly, tried to rise, then fell back with a groan. Suddenly in the doorway appeared M. le Diable. In one hand he bore a violin, in the other a gaily embroidered workbag.

“The shot!” growled Le Morpion, staring at him. “What was it?”

“Nothing,” said Lebrun calmly. “One of the secretaries, poor fellow, realized that he was at the point of death, and tried to kill me. He was dying as he fired; the bullet missed. Come, we shall take a needle from the bag, a string from the violin— and tomorrow you will be limping briskly around.”

He suited his actions to the words, and having selected a needle, cut a gut string from the violin. From Le Morpion broke an astonished oath.

“Dead! Then what have you done?”

Lebrun looked up from his task and smiled.

“I? Nothing. I visited the kitchen, that is all. If you will go to the window, you will see a little circle of dead birds. Well, I threw out this window our dish of curried rice, and the birds ate it. As for that downstairs, the entire household declared it excellent, I have no doubt. But when arsenic works, it works swiftly.”

“What?” cried Le Morpion admiringly. “You managed them all?”

“All but the gardener,” said Lebrun with a gesture
of deprecation. “We shall have no need of the gardener. Neither shall we have need of secretaries. As for the chef, I am sure that the Veuve Bonnard is a superb cook. As for the servants— well, we must make shift to serve ourselves! After all, it will not be a hardship; this house is excellently stocked with all we shall require.”

“Then,” said Le Morpion, “we are alone on the premises?”

“We are alone,” and Lebrun smiled. “Come, your leg!”

J. HUDSON SMITH lay with his eyes closed, his face white as death, a light sweat beading his brow. Swift and ruthless as lightning, M. le Diable had struck. How long he lay, thus, Smith did not know. When at length he opened his eyes, he was alone in the room, and the door was closed. Once certain of this, he managed to sit up in bed, at the cost of a little pain. The fever was gone.

Beside the bed still stood the table bearing the luncheon tray. There was some wine left in the bottle; Smith drank it, and felt strength flood into his veins— fictitious strength, but none the less strength! He put aside the covers, swung his feet to the floor, and rose. He swayed for a moment, until the drawn muscles about his hurt side reacted. As he waited, thus, it came to him that he had need of caution. What was done, was done; Lebrun had made a clean sweep of everyone on the island, it appeared. No use thinking of the past! Better to dismiss it and plan for the future.

Smith stepped out, and found himself not so weak as he had supposed. Near at hand was a closet. He opened the door, and found his clothes hung there carefully— all intact, even to his money belt. There was but one thing missing; and this was the one thing in search of which Smith had come— his automatic. He turned away, his lips sternly set. With some difficulty he crossed to a dresser, near the door of a tiled bathroom. Here he paused and glanced into the mirror.

A cry came to his lips at sight of the face which greeted him— bearded, gaunt, unfamiliar! Then he remembered that he had not shaved since leaving Saigon. Turning into the bathroom, he saw a cabinet at hand bearing all that he desired, and without hesitation he seized a shaving brush and set to work.

Half an hour later, he staggered back to bed and crawled under the covers, exhausted but feeling like a new man. He was asleep almost on the instant, and he did not waken until, some hours later, a laugh aroused him. He looked up to see Lebrun standing beside him smiling.

“Well, old man, you look like a gentleman!” exclaimed Lebrun. “I see you’ve been busily engaged. A cigar?” He extended an excellent cheroot, which Smith accepted gladly, and held a match.

“How is Le Morpion?”

“Oh, in a bad temper — nothing worse.” Lebrun waved his hand. “He’ll be walking by the morning. I tell you I’ve been working this afternoon! Real work.”

Smith could guess what manner of work this had been, but he repressed the shiver that came upon him.

“Yes?” he inquired calmly. “By the way, how shall you account to Mlle. des Gachons for the absence of so many people? Or shall you endeavour to account at all?”

“But certainly!” exclaimed M. le Diable, laughing softly. “I have already prepared a letter written in the exact hand of Des Gachons himself, informing her that ptomaine poisoning is responsible for the deplorable lack of human life here; this letter was written by a dying man, you see? We arrived in time to bury everyone. It has been neatly done, I assure you. She will not suspect— at least, for some time. When the crisis comes, then we may have to use a show of force. Well, you must excuse me now; I brought a book or two from the library for you.”

He indicated several volumes on a chair by the bed, and departed. Smith gazed after him with a frown of vain wonder; he could not understand this man in the least.

“I don’t want to understand him, either,” he reflected, taking one of the books. “Still, I’d like to know if it was he who removed my pistol!”

The house was silent and deserted. Smith read; forced himself to read, in order that his brain might be distracted from too much contemplation. Some time later, his lids drooped and he fell asleep over his book.

When he was aroused, the room was in darkness. He was wide awake instantly, with the uneasy sense that there was a strange presence in the room. He heard someone stumble and kick aside a chair; there came an oath in a voice that certainly was not that of either Lebrun or Le Morpion. Smith waited, silent. A match flamed, and a candle sprang into quick fire as though still hot from having been recently extinguished. Smith looked up to see a figure beside him bearing a tray. It was the figure of Curel.

“You!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “Ah— then you have come!”

“We have come,” said Curel in a mournful voice. “And here is your supper and mine; not much, heaven knows, but enough! The others are dining downstairs.”

“The others?”

“Mme. Bonnard, our sister in complicity, and M. le Diable. Mademoiselle has gone to her room. She is, I think, somewhat overcome by grief. Damn Lebrun! If I had foreseen what was about to happen here, if I had known that girl—”

“Well?” said Smith, as the other put down the tray and paused. “What would you have done?”

Curel laughed harshly. “I would have come all the same, very likely! Well, it is a droll world; but here is some very fine Sauterne. Your health, monsieur!”

Curel poured himself a glass of wine and gulped it, as though in need of the stimulant.

7

A Woman Has Her Own Ideas

AT THIS moment Smith was struck by a singular fact. He knew very well that those who are addicted to opium, usually shun liquor, which seems to kill the deadening effect of the drug. Yet Curel, who was a gentleman by birth, did not drink his Sauterne as either a gentleman or an opium addict should. On the contrary, he gulped it avidly, as though seeking in it a stimulant and cordial. Curel had the manner of one who has just been profoundly shocked and horrified.

“My dear M. Smith,” he said, leaning back and surveying Smith, “I feel some pity for you.”

“Thanks,” said the American. “Why?”

“You perceive the result of yourself from extinguishing L’Etoile. Now, it will be even more difficult to do away with Le Morpion; who, I assure you, can bite worse than his namesake! Still worse, I am convinced, will prove the Veuve Bonnard. After all this, you will be stabbed, shot, back-broken — yet there will remain the worst of all, M. le Diable himself—”

“What are you driving at?” demanded Smith, raising himself to one elbow and regarding Curel from narrowed lids. “Do you think I’m an assassin?”

“By no means, dear comrade! However, I am a philosopher; I view what passes with an air of abstraction—usually. But now it is different. Now I am about to make you a proposal.”

“Make it,” said Smith curtly, wondering what the man was coming to.

“It is this: that you take care of Le Morpion and Félice, since I cannot touch a woman. I will undertake to remove Monsieur.”

Smith started. “What? You mean that you would join me—”

Curel rose to his feet and yawned.

“You wonder, perhaps?” he said. “Well, there is an explanation. I am not the same poor devil whom you saw in Saigon. You comprehend I have spent some time in the company of Mlle. Berangère! I take for granted that you will not scruple to betray the devil in order to save an angel — particularly when you have become acquainted with the angel! Moreover, as I hinted in Saigon, I am somewhat acquainted with your past; hence I can guess at certain things in the present. Think over my proposal until tomorrow. Au revoir!”

So saying, Curel hastily left the room, disregarding the meal he had brought.

DURING the remainder of the evening Smith was left to his own devices, not a little to his relief. He found it exceedingly hard to digest the proposal of Curel; he was both amazed and suspicious.

Suspicion, however, was scarcely justified— he realized this quickly enough. Here was a man who still retained something of the gentleman; coming in contact with Lebrun and what Lebrun had done, he instinctively revolted. Curel, or De Curel, must have been in ignorance of all that was intended. Certainly, he had been terribly upset upon getting here. News of the supposed ptomaine poisoning must have been broken to Berangère rather ungently; at all events, the shock had been no less severe to Curel than to the girl.

The amazement of Smith was more justified than was his first impulse to suspicion. This offer of alliance was the last thing he expected. There was some reason for thinking that Curel would be neutral— but an active aid! This was different. It was distinctly encouraging. And yet—

What about this girl, Berangère?

“I’ll have to go slow until I can see her,” thought Smith. “If she’s some little fool, some hysterical feminine doll, I’d better put her in the motor boat and beat it. If not— well, let the future manage itself! Curel was right about my chances of surviving, however; I’d better lose no time, or Le Morpion won’t be easy to handle.”

So thinking, he fell asleep.

IN THE morning, his breakfast was brought by Félice Bonnard. It was not his first sight of this extraordinary person; he had met her, briefly, in Saigon. When she had arranged the tray, she stepped back and surveyed him in silence. Her air was saturnine, unsmiling.

“You have changed,” she announced critically.

“And for the better. I understand that you have undertaken to tame my mistress?”

In the last word was a covert sneer— a flash of the eye, a twist of the lip.

“That, I believe,” responded Smith calmly, “is the arrangement. Do you object?”

She shrugged. Already, without word or reason, there had risen between them a wall of intense dislike. On the part of Félice, this feeling was tinctured with lofty contempt. “You are not the man for the job,” was her cool response. “But since it is settled— take warning! The girl is no fool.”

“Ah!” The American’s brows were elevated. “Yet she engaged you?”

“Take care, you!” she retorted, a slow flush mantling her cheek. “A word from me, and the master will put you out— pouf!— like a candle.”

Smith regarded her with a cold smile. Already he perceived how one of his difficulties might be removed. He could scarcely kill a woman, and this was a woman who would require killing— nothing less. A woman? No; a snake. Yet she was no more than a sharer in the crimes of Lebrun; thus far, she had done nothing overt. To kill her would be difficult.

“The master?” he replied slowly. “I suppose you mean your master, charming Félice! Are you not capable, then, of extinguishing your own candles?”

Her eyes hardened beneath this raillery; her face became harsh, livid.

“You are impudent to me— you!” she said in a level voice. “Take care!”

“If you have finished your warnings,” said Smith, with a gesture of dismissal, “you may go. I require nothing further, thank you.”

She darted him one glance that was barbed with venom, then swept from the room.

The breakfast was excellent, and Smith enjoyed it to the full. When he had finished, he rose, made shift to bathe, and dressed. There were clothes laid out for him— garments of silk; but he revolted at wearing the clothes of murdered men, and he got into his own frayed attire. This effort left him nearly exhausted. He reached an old fashioned bell-pull near the door, dragged at the cord, and sank into a chair.

In response to this summons, Curel appeared.

“Tiens! Up and dressed? But —”

“Some coffee, Curel,” broke in the American. “I need it. And an automatic.”

Curel nodded, caught up the tray, and vanished. In ten minutes he reappeared, bearing a cup of hot coffee. With this, he set down an automatic pistol.

“I trust,” he observed whimsically, as Smith pocketed the weapon and gulped the coffee, “that you anticipate no executions this morning?”

“Don’t be a fool.” Smith chuckled. “Get me a stick, will you? A cane. Help me to reach the garden, bring me something to read, and leave me to recuperate by myself.”

“Willingly.”

In twenty minutes, Smith was seated in an easy chair in the sunken garden, drinking in the warm sunlight and the perfume of the trees around. Magazines and cheroots were nearby. Curel had departed.

As he sat here, Smith was oppressed by the sudden loneliness of this beautiful place. As if by the  touch of a malignant hand, all those who lived here had been swept away. Everything was yet eloquent of them; the personality of Des Gachons lingered in the place he had loved.

“I could forgive much,” thought Smith dreamily, “but I cannot forgive this poisoning. Wait a little, M. le Diable!”

HE HAD encountered no one. Nor did he see anyone until noon, when Lebrun in person fetched his tray and regarded him with a thin smile.

“My dear Smith, you have antagonized Félice. This is unfortunate, really!”

“Can’t help it,” said the American. “Mutual antagonism, I suppose. How’s everything?”

The other nodded complacently. “Excellent. Le Morpion procured some brandy, and his wound is inflamed. He’ll be around tomorrow, I trust. By the way, you’ll join us at dinner tonight? We are a bit short of help, you understand, and since you can walk—”

“By all means,” assented Smith. “You are a good surgeon!”

Lebrun bowed, laughed, and departed.

At the dinner table that night, Smith for the first time met Berangère des Gachons. The household arrangements were, in the nature of things, informal. Le Morpion, who possessed some culinary skill, was aiding Félice as cook; Curel buttled, with his tongue in his cheek. At the table in the dining room, which was lighted by two huge candelabra, were only Lebrun, Smith, and the girl.

Berangère appeared clad in black, crowned by her radiant hair; her blue eyes were dimmed by sorrow, her face pale. She was silent and unsmiling, yet by the quiet manner in which she assumed her position of hostess, Smith was entirely convinced that this game was to be played out here on the spot— there was to be no running away!

The introduction had been performed mechanically; the talk was all in French. But, when at the table, Smith made a passing remark to Lebrun in English. Instantly he found the blue eyes of the girl widening upon him, a new light stirring in their depths. She leaned forward.

“Pardon, monsieur— is not your name Smith? You are an American?”

Smith smiled and assented. But the girl said no more; she relapsed into her silence, and betrayed slight interest in the conversation. Perhaps Lebrun, who missed nothing, perceived that from time to time her gaze dwelt upon Smith in frowning curiosity. The meal over, Berangère bade the others make themselves at home, and excused herself.

Lebrun and Smith settled down to cheroots in the library, where Le Morpion and Curel joined them. Here, presently, came Félice with word that Berangère had retired for the night.

“And,” she added, lighting a cigarette and settling into a chair, “I have had enough of being a maid, me! How much longer, Paul, before—”

She broke off significantly. Lebrun gave Smith a glance, and his thin smile.

“M. Smith can hardly become a bridegroom as yet,” he responded. “Unless, that is, he prefers to arrange matters with the young lady in advance —”

“Don’t you worry about me,” said Smith. “It’s settled that the girl belongs to me?”

He saw Curel wince slightly. Le Morpion grinned. Lebrun nodded assent.

“Then I’ll have a talk with her tomorrow,” said the American. He rose. “I’m off for bed— can’t afford to overdo now. Good night!”

“I’ll help you,” volunteered Curel.

THEY left the room together and sought Smith’s bedroom. Neither man spoke until they had closed the door, and Curel had lighted the lamp. Then, blowing out the match, he looked at the American and smiled in his melancholy way.

“You can’t possibly mean,” he said questioningly, “that you’ll strike tomorrow?”

Smith nodded. “It’ll have to be now or never, Curel. Late tomorrow afternoon, perhaps. I’ll have a talk with Berangère.” He broke into a quick laugh, “What’s so terrible about it, after all? The odds are absolutely even. A woman against a woman. A wounded man against a wounded man. You against Lebrun. Bah!”

Curel fingered his beard. His dark eyes were sombre.

“You mistake,” he answered. “It is not so at all. It is Berangère against Félice; you against Le Morpion; and I— I!— against M. le Diable. Well, we shall see!”

With this rather cryptic utterance, he departed.

When Smith wakened to the early morning sunlight in his room, he felt himself again— only the twinge of pain as he left the bed, brought him to realization that he was good for little. Still, the weakness had gone. He dressed with cheerful confidence in himself, and went down to breakfast. When Berangère appeared he saw that she, too, seemed more like the girl she must have been. He wished vaguely that he had known her before this blow had stricken her. He had already decided that Berangère must attend to Félice. Woman against woman.

During breakfast, Smith discovered that there was something amiss with his bandage, which had slipped. After the meal he returned to his room, adjusted the binding firmly, pocketed his automatic, and resolved to have a talk with Berangère at once. Yet the house seemed oddly deserted. Before speaking with the girl, he must assure himself that the others were out of the way; but he could not find them. He went to the kitchen. Le Morpion had vanished. Curel and Lebrun were nowhere. In the hall, Smith paused before a rack of sticks. His eye was caught by a fine Malacca, and for this he discarded the heavier stick which he had been using. Then he perceived that the Malacca was a sword-cane— three-edged, elegant, deadly, its triangular blade finely chased. He took this, and then turned at a step behind him.

It was Berangère. She was dressed for the pool, a light wrap about her shoulders, cloaking her gold-clad figure. She paused at sight of him, and her blue eyes flashed.

“Mademoiselle, I was about to seek you,” said Smith, “in order to beg a few moments —”

“Perhaps you will reconsider,” said she, coldly, “when I tell you that I know you.”

“What?” Smith’s brows lifted. “I am afraid—”

“No protestations, if you please,” she broke in. “I am aware that there is a reward for you. I am also aware that, a year or so ago, you were the confidential emissary of the governor-general himself; I have remembered your face at last. You are the man who reorganized the police system. You are the man who tracked down the opium traffic from Yunnan and stamped it out. You are the man who broke up the criminal gangs along the western border.

“For all this, monsieur, you have received recognition. I find you here, shipwrecked and hurt; you are welcome to shelter and food. But, I pray you, seek nothing more! I know that the governor-general himself offers a thousand dollars for information as to your whereabouts.

“What crimes you have committed, how you have fallen so low from so high a place, I do not know nor do I desire to know. Kindly remember, monsieur, that I wish no intrusion.”

Smith was absolutely taken aback. Before he could find words to respond, Berangère had turned to the doorway and was gone. He stared after her, and swore under his breath.

An evil chuckle startled him.

He turned, to see Le Morpion in the library doorway, standing there and grinning at him.

“So! I begin to comprehend a few things,” said Le Morpion ominously.

8

Le Morpion Comprehends Everything

“I BEGIN to comprehend why L’Etoile died,” said Le Morpion, his baleful grin still fastened upon the American. His head was thrust forward, his small eyes glittering.

The two men stood, thus, at gaze. Le Morpion produced no weapon.  It was clear that he considered Smith unarmed; he himself, doubtless, had appropriated Smith’s automatic.

“Don’t make a mistake,” said Smith calmly.

“Not I. You stated, I believe, that you were some sort of engineer, at work on the new railroad construction? Very good. Yet this girl recognizes you as the man of whom we all heard, yet whom no one knew— the man whom the governor-general trusted.”

“You forget,” drawled Smith, “the slight matter of my being at present wanted by the authorities.”

Le Morpion shook his head.

“I forget nothing, me! I don’t forget, for instance, that you are the unknown foreigner who has played the devil with all honest thieves — the mysterious foreigner! Well, there is no more mystery.”

“There is no more mystery,” murmured Smith, with a slight nod of assent. “That is all very true, Le Morpion. But now I am your comrade.”

Le Morpion laughed harshly.

“My comrade? Bah! I don’t forget that L’Etoile was my comrade. As for you, assassin, you are no comrade of mine! I want no policeman at my side.”

“But, the reward—”

Le Morpion brushed aside this suggestion with a shake of his bulging jaws.

“No, no! Never mind all that.” He leered at Smith, brought up his hands, and began to crack his warped knuckles rapidly. “Hey! Do you know that I am going to kill you?”

Smith gazed at him with imperturbable calm. Only his right thumb moved, very slightly. With this movement, he unfastened the catch which would lay bare the steel of the sword-cane in his hand. “Kill me?” he repeated. “But, in the name of everything, why?”

Le Morpion laughed. From him emanated a faint but distinct reek; obviously, he had been at the brandy bottle again. He was not responsible.

Smith perceived that there could be but one issue from this encounter. He could read this issue in the eyes of the other man. Le Morpion knew him to be wounded, weakened, and unarmed. There was no pity in the eyes of the killer.

ALMOST instantly Smith dismissed the notion of shooting Le Morpion. He could do it with ease; but a shot at this juncture would spoil everything. A shot would bring everyone, and there must be no shooting until the time was ripe. Le Morpion was merely an obstacle; the true focus of danger was Monsieur the Devil. And for all Smith knew, Lebrun might be in the adjoining room.

“Kill me?” he said again. “Why?”

“In the first place, because you killed poor L’Etoile,” grated Le Morpion, coming a step or two closer. A new gleam lightened his evil eyes. “And, in the second place, because I have decided that this girl shall be mine instead of yours. In the third place, because you are the mysterious foreigner. I don’t like foreigners, me, nor mystery either!”

“But,” argued Smith pleasantly, “all this is no basis for killing, my friend! Besides, M. le Diable wishes to make use of me.”

Le Morpion leered. “Yes, but when he learns who you are, he may change his mind!”

“At least, you will allow me to die quickly?”

“As quickly as my hands will do it.” Le Morpion bared his teeth. “Ah! You damned gentlemen— I want to feel your throats under my thumbs! Curel is another, with his accursed lazy elegance. Well, his turn will come! Now I shall kill you.”

“In effect, you understand everything?” said Smith.

“Everything!” repeated the other, drawing closer, his hands outstretched and tense. In his eyes was the blood-lust.

“But there is one mystery which you do not yet comprehend,” said Smith very calmly.

The other paused, blinking at him.

“Eh? And what is that, you white-throat?”

“The mystery of life and death. I shall endeavour to elucidate it.”

As he spoke, Smith moved.

His foot struck the thigh of Le Morpion — struck that wounded thigh which had been sewed by Lebrun. It was a shrewd kick, carrying very little force, but with enough to serve its purpose quite well. From Le Morpion was wrenched a cry of agony. He doubled up, catching with both hands at his wounded thigh. Before he could move again, Smith had whipped the thin triangular blade from its malacca sheath and lunged forward with it. The thrust went home just as Le Morpion was straightening up. The blade entered at the collar-bone, and Le Morpion, rising as though to meet that deadly thrust, impaled himself. The blade protruded a foot behind his shoulder. He caught at the hilt with both hands, and his mouth opened. Like an orang-outang shot through the chest, who claws at the wound and foams great screams of fury, Le Morpion tore at the thin blade and tried to vent his rage— but no sound came from him. His mouth gasped frightfully. He tried to rush forward upon Smith, but death was loosening his knees.

“I believe,” said Smith coolly, “that at last you comprehend everything, my friend?”

The eyes of Le Morpion widened. He clutched at the air, and rocked upon his feet for an instant; then his knees doubled, and he fell backward through the doorway of the library, whence he had emerged.

Smith stepped forward and closed the door, and turned back to the rack of sticks.

“Thank you for the sword-cane, M. des Gachons!” he said. “Your gardener is avenged.”

Selecting another stick, this one of green ebony, he left the house.

HIS first intent was to follow Berangère, who had evidently gone to the swimming pool. Then he paused, and turned. Whither had Lebrun gone? Where else than to the little harbor in which lay the boats?

Smith decided quickly, and started for the cove. Before he had taken two steps, he put a hand to his side and sank down. That quick, swift lunge had hurt his wound.

He sat on a step of the portico, there in the sunlight, and cursed softly. Admission was forced upon him that the odds were heavy— heavier than he had reckoned. After all, there was something in the sardonic suggestion of Curel that by the time he came to deal with Lebrun he would be very nearly dead! This thought drew a twisted smile to his lips.

After a moment he writhed out of his jacket, and opened his shirt. It was not so bad as he had feared; the wound had not been reopened after all. Still, the skin had received a shrewd pull.

“Another such jolt will finish me,” he reflected.

He got into his jacket again and leaned back, feeling a bit sick. Presently he took out his pipe and tobacco, and smoked. At a sudden thought, he produced the automatic which Curel had brought him, and examined it.

To his utter dismay, he found that it contained but a single cartridge, that in the firing chamber. There was no clip underneath. He put it back into his pocket and stared at the green trees, his eyes hard and cold.

“The cards, it seems, run worse every minute,” he said to himself. “Lebrun, you are well called! You have the luck of the very devil himself!”

He might find a weapon on the body of Le Morpion, but he dared not risk the effort of going to get it. Every ounce of strength left to him, must be stored and saved. Every iota of energy was precious in the extreme.

Two courses were open to him. In one direction, at the end of that avenue of palms, was Berangère; he might go to her. In the other direction was the harbor, where he might join Curel and Lebrun. Why not go thither, and attend to M. le Diable at once? He would have Curel to help.

This was the better course, decidedly.

He knocked out his pipe and rose. After a moment he stood leaning on the stick, and turned toward the cove. It occurred to him with passing curiosity that he had seen nothing of Félice Bonnard, but he dismissed the thought as inconsequential. She was probably about the house somewhere.

HOLDING himself stiffly, Smith slowly proceeded toward the harbor. He could walk well enough, although his strength was slender. What worried him most was the single cartridge in his automatic. It gave him a terribly slim margin.

Pausing occasionally to rest, he followed the winding path and came, at last, to the little house perched at the verge of the cliff overlooking the cove. He had already heard from the others of the counter-balanced weights and the moving escalier, and knew how it was worked. There was only a lever to pull. He sank down upon the seat overlooking the cove. For a moment he felt dizzy and weak; everything was a blur. Then a voice and a step, and the creak of the escalier; he looked up to see Lebrun standing before him.

“Smith! What’s the matter, man?” exclaimed the other quickly. “You’re livid—”

Smith’s fingers trembled. One cartridge! He dared not do it now. He could not trust himself to shoot.

“Overdone,” he said, faintly. “Hurt my side.”

“Rest,” said Lebrun with decision. “Take it easy, man! I’ve been working here this morning. Make yourself at home— the place is yours.”

With a chuckle, he passed on.

Smith looked after him, and even reached for his pocket. Then he paused. He dared not risk that one cartridge— he could not put faith in his hand at this moment. Then the moment was passed; Lebrun had disappeared.

With a long breath, Smith regained control of himself. The weakness passed. It was very good to sit here and rest. His eyes wandered to the cove beneath—ah! What was wrong down there?

He leaned forward, alert once more. He saw now what it was that Lebrun had been working over, doubtless aided by Curel. All those boats down there had vanished. Only one remained: the large motor cruiser, which had been drawn in to the boathouse, where the water was deep close to the float.

“He took them out and sank them— beyond the reef!” murmured Smith. “But where is Curel?”

A vague but terrible uneasiness laid hold upon him. He rose, peering downward. A moving shape caught his eye; he saw Félice Bonnard appear for an instant at the after hatchway of the motor cruiser. Her head came into sight, then vanished again. But what of Curel? He was not in sight.

The lips of Smith drew into a thin line. He rose, leaned for a moment on his stick, then stepped to the escalier. A touch of the lever, and he was being taken swiftly downward.

9

One Cannot Escape the Devil

STANDING on the shore, Smith looked about. Curel was not in sight anywhere, but the door of the boat- house stood wide open; one passed through this to the float beyond, where was moored the motor cruiser. After a minute Smith approached the boathouse. Félice Bonnard appeared to be very busy aboard the cruiser. Upon the float Smith saw a pile of cases and miscellaneous stuff, doubtless the cargo removed from the smaller cruiser before she had been sunk. Lebrun’s object in sinking the other craft was clear enough. There would be the big cruiser remaining, in which everything could be carried away that was worth while. In the meantime, neither Berangère nor anyone else would be able to leave. Doubtless Lebrun meant to guard that big cruiser night and day.

“And when I had served his purpose, had accomplished his final revenge for him upon the Des Gachons family,” thought Smith, “he would calmly depart, leave me here, and send the authorities after me! And I would be taken as the criminal responsible for the whole business. Not a bad scheme, except that—”

He broke off, smiling thinly.

Now the motor cruiser and float were out of his sight, as he came near the boat-house. It did not occur to him that anything might have happened, down here. His uneasiness was purely subconscious. Yet he remembered the terrible sang-froid of Lebrun, which was most apparent at times of stress, and he hastened his lagging steps.

Félice, he reflected, was no doubt at work on something in the hold of the cruiser, and Curel was with her. Monsieur the Devil had probably gone in search of Le Morpion, for at this juncture all hands counted. Well, let him search! The one cartridge still remained.

So thinking, Smith entered the open doorway of the boathouse. Opposite him, the door giving on the float was also open. The interior of the building was well lighted. Smith came to a sudden halt and stared at Curel, who sat on a pile of rope just inside the door. Curel was wiping his lips with the back of his hand, as though he had just been drinking; but the back of his hand came away red.

“So, you have come!” said Curel in a faint voice.

“Obviously,” returned Smith. “See here! What’s the matter with you —”

Curel looked up, with a shadow of his melancholy smile.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, “except that I am dying. I had a chance to get Lebrun— but before I could do it, that she-devil had stabbed me through the back. I’m done, Smith. There’s one thing you can do— quickly! Go out and clap on the hatch— prison her in the hold— do it quickly! I’ll be dead in half an hour— let me still do what I can —”

SMITH stood motionless for an instant, shocked into immobility. It came to him in a flash that Curel still had some scheme, some plan— the man was dying, yet his brain was at work! Without response, the American stepped forward and came out on the float, to which the big cruiser was moored. He paused. A step or two on the deck, and Félice would have warning. Quietly as possible, he followed the rail of the cruiser aft, then gathered himself and gained the deck. Two swift steps took him to the after hatchway, which was open. The hatch lay beside the opening.

Stooping, Smith seized the cover and dragged it into place. As it fell, a muffled exclamation came from below. A coil of rope lay neatly flaked to one side. Smith caught hold of this, drew it to the hatch, and dumped it on top. The hatch lifted a little to pressure from below; Smith stepped on it and waited, resting, panting a little as he leaned on his cane. He smiled, and listened to a storm of furious imprecations from the imprisoned woman.

After a moment, satisfied that the coil of rope would be more than Félice could move, the American turned and retraced his steps. Entering the boat-house, he found Curel up on his feet, wavering and clinging to the wall for support. He caught the man’s arm. Curel shook off his hand with petulant impatience.

“Be quiet!” Curel’s eyes were feverish and terrible. “Do what I tell you—”

“Have you a weapon?” demanded Smith. “There was only one cartridge in the pistol you brought me.”

Curel gazed at him and uttered a hollow laugh.

“None. Lebrun took mine. They— they brushed me aside as one brushes a maimed insect! But that was a mistake. I can still— here! Help me outside —”

Smith aided him to walk. Slowly and painfully, Curel gained the rail of the boat, and with a terrible effort came to the deck. He stumbled and fell, gasping blood. Smith helped him up again.

“I attended to Le Morpion,” he said quietly.

“Good! There will remain — only M. le Diable. He will kill you, but what matter? It is for the girl, the sweet girl!” Curel caught his breath. “Well, at least I shall die like a poet! Into the pilot house—”

Smith guided his feeble steps. Presently the two men came into the wheel-house, and at a gasped order, Smith drew a wicker chair before the helm. Curel sank into this.

“We were running the boat— towing the others out— sinking them. Go and start the engine. The switches are set. The—the white button will start—”

THE American went aft to the engine-room. From below was coming a frantic pounding; he could hear Félice crying out, her voice muffled and desperate. Some inkling of Curel’s scheme came to him as he touched the buttons and heard the engines throb into sudden life. He came back to Curel, who was testing the controls, and who greeted him with another smile.

“Now, my friend,” gasped Curel, who was white as death, “cast off the lines! We shall go out to sea, this Félice and I; and perhaps a week hence, they will find Des Gachons’ boat with a dead man still guiding it westward — after all, it is the best way! One cannot shoot a woman. And it is for the sake of the sweet girl— Holy Virgin, will you hurry? I am dying fast!”

Smith stumbled away, unable to speak. Once on the float, he made shift to cast off the lines. He caught the voice of Curel lifting to him, so faintly that the words were lost; then the engines hummed, and the motor cruiser darted from the float.

The American stood gazing after it. He was still numbed by that final outburst of authority from Curel—the frenzied pleading of the dying man! Now, as he watched the boat draw out, he marvelled at it all. There was no craft left here in which he might escape with Berangère; yet what need? Curel was gone, dying, and with him he was taking Félice. The boat would be surely picked up sooner or later, and recognized.

As for Félice, Smith gave her not a thought. She was gone, that was all.

His eyes following the lessening boat, Smith wondered how long Curel would live to hold her. Straight as an arrow, she was leaping out from the island toward the horizon. Suddenly he saw her veer, waver drunkenly, then pick up a new course. He turned away, his lips set hard. He knew what had happened then.

HIS lips curved in a grim smile as he walked along. What a desperate game in which destiny seemed to deal the cards! He had one cartridge, and very little strength.

Even had it been otherwise — even had he been well armed, in possession of all his old strength and skill and cool confidence, he would have found Monsieur the Devil a terrible antagonist. But now— Smith lifted his head and smiled to himself. Well, with all the cards stacked, the game remained to be played! Win or lose, the game remained! Could he gain the help of Berangère, there might be a chance. And, instead of depending upon cartridges which were not, there were other things just as dependable— inward things, things of the soul and brain and cool eyes! After all, he was in this affair for the thrill of the game itself!

So he came to the house, and, because he doubted his ability to waste much strength, he lifted his voice and called Lebrun.

There was no response. Twice more Smith called the man’s name, but received no answer. The house remained silent. Smith hesitated, then turned to the avenue of palms. Just as well, perhaps! He must find Berangère— and tell her the truth.

Slowly, drawing carefully upon his low vitality, Smith made his way along that shady avenue, and came upon the sky-blue pool at the end, with its circle of white sand and its wall. He paused, for Berangère was not here. The canvas awning shaded only white sand. What? Surely she could not have returned to the house?

Then he perceived the gate in the wall, and that  this gate stood open. Coming to it he rested a moment. Before him was outspread the little orchard. Twenty feet away, stretched out beneath a flame-tree, was Berangère. She lay motionless, with her face in her arms.

Smith closed the gate and came forward. The girl stirred, glanced up, then rose lithely. Her eyes were angry as she spoke.

“Monsieur! How dare you—”

“Be quiet, please,” said Smith calmly. “You must listen to me; I have information for you which is vital and terrible. I regret that I must cause you great grief, mademoiselle; but your father did not die of ptomaine or other causes. He was murdered.”

As she regarded him, the girl went white as death.

“I know that,” she said in a low voice. Smith started.

“What? You say—”

“I guessed as much, since the letter he supposedly left for me was palpably forged.” Her voice was icy. “Also, you, a criminal, were here. And—”

Smith checked her with upraised hand.

“I am not a criminal,” he said quietly. “Let me speak, please— minutes may be valuable! Do you remember a man whom your father sent to Noumea for life— a rather notorious person who was called M. le Diable?”

“I have heard something of him, yes,” she answered.

“That man is Lebrun, with whom you breakfasted this morning. Your maid Félice is one of his accomplices. So is— or was— Le Morpion. So, presumably, were Curel and I. But Curel was a gentleman. We were not aware of what Lebrun intended here; I shot one of the gang en route, and was wounded, prostrated. You understand all this?”

She was staring from wide, stricken eyes.

“I was unable to prevent what happened,” went on Smith. “In order to save you, Curel and I decided to strike without delay. I killed Le Morpion this morning; but your maid, Félice, murdered Curel. Still, Félice has been attended to. There now remains Lebrun, M. le Diable himself. Against him I can do little. I am feeble, and I must depend on you to get me a weapon— a pistol, you understand? If we work together—”

“Wait!” Berangère brushed one hand across her eyes, then looked at Smith as though she had expected to see him vanish, dream-like. “You say— you are no criminal—”

“I am not,” said Smith. “Some time ago I learned that a number of M. le Diable’s gang were at large, and got a clue to them. I followed that clue, and was about to have them arrested when M. le Diable himself turned up, having escaped from Noumea. After that I was given no opportunity to bring about an arrest until we had left Saigon and it was too late—”

“But— the— reward—”

“Was offered,” and Smith smiled, “in the hope that it would remove suspicion from me, in case I were recognized—”

“Oh!” A cry broke from the girl. “You— how do I know this is not some frightful lie —”

A third voice interrupted, broke in upon them with suave insistence.

“I assure you that it is the truth, mademoiselle,” said Monsieur the Devil, as he rose from the pomegranate hedge and approached them, smiling his thin smile.

10

The One Shot

“IT IS the absolute truth, mademoiselle,” repeated Lebrun, advancing. “I shall presently offer proof, by killing this excellent policeman and attempting to console you in person. Please sit down and do not interrupt us, mademoiselle. Now, M. Smith, will you throw away that stick, and seat yourself? Thus I shall be able to dispense with this heavy weapon, for a time.” He indicated the automatic in his hand.

Smith, whose face had reddened with chagrin and the astounded sense that all was lost, threw away his cane and sank down upon the grass. Evidently Lebrun considered him unarmed, especially from his recent words to Berangère.

There was a moment of silence. Lebrun came forward, put his weapon into his pocket, and drew out a cheroot, which he lighted. Berangère drew the silk wrap closer about her, staring from wide eyes, filled with fright and terror and comprehension of her own situation. Smith, thinking of that single cartridge in his pocket, looked at the cliff-edge and the sea; and in this moment there came to him the idea of poetic retribution. When he looked back at Lebrun, he was smiling.

“I may smoke?” he asked calmly. Lebrun nodded.

“Certainly — your last smoke, M. Smith. I know, of course, that you will die well.”

Smith put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out pipe and tobacco. He filled and lighted the pipe, bringing matches from his pocket.

“If you had not taken the pistol from my clothes—” he said significantly.

“Le Morpion did that. You killed Le Morpion this morning, I believe you said?”

“Yes. And Félice has gone to sea with Curel at the helm of the ship.”

At this, Lebrun showed a trifle of astonishment. Then he slowly smiled.

“Well, that is not so bad!” he declared cheerfully. “So Félice is gone? Then she will not be here to interfere, if I attempt to console Mlle. des Gachons! That is excellent! And I must congratulate you, M. Smith, upon the way you fooled me in Saigon. And if L’Etoile had not stabbed you, I almost believe that you would have prevented the demise of M. des Gachons!”

“Certainly,” responded Smith. “You will remember that, after the moment we arrived, I never saw him again. Otherwise, I should certainly have warned him—”

A low moan broke from Berangère. Horror sat in her eyes, which were fastened on Lebrun.

“You— then are you the man—”

Lebrun bowed slightly. “I am the man, my dear. M. le Diable, at your service presently! First I must take care of this impertinent policeman. We three, I gather, are alone on the island. Now history repeats
itself, M. Smith! So you are what is called a detective?”

“I am many things,” said Smith calmly.

Berangère moved. The silk wrap fell from about her shoulders, and she lay quiet. She had finally realized that she was talking with the man who had murdered her father— and she had fainted.

“That is excellent,” said Lebrun, taking the pistol from his pocket. “Suppose, my dear Smith, that you rise and take a little walk! Let us approach the edge of the cliff.”

With a gesture of resignation, Smith managed to rise. For an instant he stood, one hand pressed against his wound. Then he drew a deep breath, took the pipe from his mouth, and knocked it out against the palm of his hand.

“I suppose,” he asked, casually, “there is no chance of buying my life?”

“My dear fellow, don’t be silly!” Lebrun’s eyes glittered venomously. “I have always intended to shape events so that, in the end, this charming bit of girlhood would be mine,” and he gestured toward the inert figure of Berangère, lying like a wilted golden flower.

“You see, it was at this very spot I first came out of the sea, and—”

“Then,” said Smith, putting his pipe into his pocket, “it is obviously only proper that at this point you should go back into the sea—”

And, as he spoke, he fired the one cartridge. Lebrun whirled about. The pistol flew from his hand. The hand itself dropped to his side, broken and mangled in red confusion. Smith covered the man with his empty weapon and spoke:

“Come here!”

Writhing under the agony of that mangled hand, Lebrun obeyed. His face was frightful to look upon. He spat at Smith a low vitriolic stream of curses.

“That’s enough!” commanded Smith sharply. “Turn your back.”

Lebrun hesitated, then obeyed, so that he was facing the cliff.

“Now mind your step, my man,” said Smith quietly, his voice like steel. “I don’t intend to guard you, I don’t intend to take you back to Saigon, and I don’t intend to kill you. If you force a bullet, I shall shoot you in the abdomen— you comprehend? That is all.”

Stooping, Smith picked up the silk wrap of the girl and threw it over the shoulder of Lebrun.

“Put that over your head and walk forward,” he commanded. “You shall return to the sea whence you came. If you do not relish that program, then you may force a bullet— but in such an event, I warn you, the result will be most unpleasant and lingering. Choose!”

In the gray eyes of Smith, M. le Diable read absolutely no mercy. Probably he expected none. His fate lay clear before him. At his side, his right hand dripped blood. None the less, despite this mangled hand, despite the unexpected turn which had so swiftly overwhelmed him, Lebrun smiled. In his manner was a power, a singular indomitable majesty.

“You will never be a great man, Smith,” he observed, “because you have a sense of humour. I have none; that is why I am what I am. And do you think that you can end the life of Monsieur the Devil? Des Gachons thought so, when he sent me to Noumea; but I came back from the dead.”

“Go at once,” said Smith coldly.

“Very well, monsieur. But may I be permitted to say au revoir?”

With this, Lebrun walked deliberately toward the cliff. He did not glance backward. He came to the verge, and for one instant stood there, outlined against the sky and sea. The next instant— he was gone.

Like an echo from hell, his thin laugh floated upward.

Smith, trembling, picked up his cane and made his way to the cliff edge. He gazed downward. There was nothing in sight. The green water swirled below in faint whiteness against the rocks.

Smith tossed his empty pistol into the sea, and turned. “A good game, well played!” he said, and sighed. “Yet, perhaps I should have shot him and made certain! But we’ll find his body washing on the rocks tomorrow.”

His eyes fell on the figure of Berangère, and they softened.

“Well, it’s finished!” His voice sounded very faint and distant in his ears. “And now —and now— the rest is up to you, mademoiselle— up to you— and Curel!”

He lay quietly upon the grass, and his eyes closed.

__________________

The Treasure of Ling Ti

2: The Tale of the Tenth Tablet

Sunday Star, Washington DC, 11 Dec 1921

CHENG-TU is an ancient city on a plain, with three million people crowded around It. Before the Roman empire fell, Cheng-tu was great. Hence, it might be imagined that when Jim Hanecy, agent and dealer in antiques, came 1,500 miles up the Yangtze River to this city ho knew what he was doing.

The contrary was the case.

Hanecy was red-haired and was tremendously efficient in a cold, clear-headed way. He came up-river as far as the gorges on definite business, running down some old porcelains. Then he fell foul of river men lately returned from French labour battalions with swaggering ideas of equality. The upshot of the matter was that Hanecy was shanghaied, and woke up some days afterward to find himself kicked ashore and lucky to get off with his life.

Jim took it philosophically. He tramped into Chungking, where there was a consul, and outfitted anew. Here, to his astonishment, he learned that no less than four other white men had just passed up-river on their way to Chang-tu. This fact became a coincidence when he discovered that all four had travelled separately and in haste. The coincidence settled into a suspicion when he discovered that all four were his most prominent professional rivals.

"Hello!" said Hanecy. "Now I've dropped onto something and no mistake:"

He promptly hired a boat and went to Cheng-tu. He did not know why he went, but he smelled a distinct rat. One of the four was Benson, and Benson never went after anything in person unless it was tremendously important. There was something up.

"Some big news broke suddenly on the coast," reflected Hanecy. "Reached 'em all at once. Let's see now! Toptit is straight as a string. Benson is crooked as the devil. Gramerfeld would rob his own brother of a penny. Carson plays a lone hand, same as I do. H'm! I'd sooner work with Toptit than any of the others, but I guess I'll trull Benson. He and I are about due to lock horns, anyhow!"

Hanecy did not deceive himself when he deliberately chose this course. Benson was the most dangerous man in China. He knew the dialects like a native, and had lines of influence and graft extending in all directions. Small, rather short-sighted, coolly pleasant, he never lost his head for a minute. He was said to have all the ruthless cruelty of a Manchu, but few of his personal enemies ever reported on that point. The first problem facing Jim Hanecy was to discover what was up. He had letters to a fur dealer named Kiang,  who was delighted to take him as a guest: but old Kiang knew nothing of the mystery. So Jim sallied forth on the afternoon of his arrival.

Kiang's shop and house lay in the business quarter, just inside the east gate. Hanecy sauntered along the wide, fifty-foot street with its scurrying crowds and its rows of flashy gilt signs, and two minutes afterward came slap on Benson, who was standing gazing into a shop window filled with Tibetan images.

"Hello!" exclaimed Hanecy, shaking hands, "So you're on the trail too, eh?"

Benson smiled; a nasty smile it was. He was not pleased to see Hanecy.

"Too late,'" he returned. "The show's over. Carson has left already. Gramerfield leaves in the morning. Toptit has disappeared. I'm going in a couple of days."

"Oh!" Hanecy grinned. "What kind of a lie did you hand out, to discourage 'em that way?"

Benson's eves narrowed.

"Don't get too personal, Hanecy. The stuff has been dispersed. There are a lot of collectors here, you Know. The fellow split up the whole business and it's gone."

Jim concealed his ignorance successfully.

"You're a first-chop liar," he returned cheerfully, and thereby declared war. "So you fooled the other boys. eh. Well, don't monkey with me. Benson. I'll stick around a while."

He passed on, leaving Benson staring after him. He was as mystified as ever. He knew that Cheng-tu contained many native collections of paintings and antiques, most of them imitations, referring to the Han period. Still, he could not imagine just what had brought his confreres here. He chuckled to think how Benson had managed to get rid of Gramerfield and Carson so quickly. That left only Toptit in the field, a gangling Yankee agent whom Hanecy rather respected.

There were no rikshas to be had in this place, and Hanecy suspected that the sedan chairs might have previous and more nimble tenants, so he preferred walking. From previous visits lie knew the city well enough to find his way about, and directed his course to the south gate, where stood the government buildings. Shortly before reaching these he compromised with dignity and hired a chair which sat him down at the entrance to the Yamen.

Hanecy paid his respects to the local mandarin. He did it in his usual fashion, without great regard for etiquette. Intending merely to get the matter over and done with, so that he might be free to act as affairs might dictate. Somewhat to his surprise he found himself received very cordially by the mandarin, who was an official from Peking and who spoke English. Hanecy was still more astonished when the mandarin blandly referred to what had brought him and his fellow dealers to Cheng-tu.

"Perhaps you have not heard, Mr. Hanecy, that the things have been dispersed."

Hanecy stalled. "I know only rumours, your Excellency. What are the facts?"

The mandarin beamed on him with oily grace. Hanecy decided to distrust the gentleman.

"It is no news to you, of course, that a workman in Honan unearthed certain relics which must have come from no other than the tomb of the Emperor Ling Ti of the eastern Han dynasty?"

"That," said Hanecy promptly, "Is what brought me here."

"Of course," was the bland response, "You know that the workman, who came from Cheng-tu fled here at once with the things he unearthed, but not before news of his discovery had gone abroad. Reaching here, he confided the treasures to a relative and shortly afterward died. The relative disposed of the things carelessly. Your fellow dealers came here too late."

Hanecy expressed proper disappointment. drank his tea to end the audience, and departed thoughtfully.

He retraced his steps across town by way of the moated, walled and entirely ruined palace of the old Han emperors, in the centre of town.

AT least, he had learned what he was here for! It was not likely that some workman had chanced on an emperor's tomb. Most of these tombs were looted ages ago, but many yet remain. And Ling Ti, who had reigned in the second century A. D. would have taken some fine things with him to the spirit world.

"I'd like to know whether this mandarin was lying," reflected Hanecy, striding down the narrow street that led past the ruined palace moats.

An instant later he had his answer. It came in the shape of a dirty beggar, who rose up out of the dust and came within an ace of sending Hanecy to join his several ancestors by means of a six-inch sliver of steel.

For a man so immersed in thought, the American moved with astonishing rapidity. With his left hand he caught the knife wrist and jerked the beggar forward: with his right he groped for the man's ribs. There was a single wild howl, and Hanecy looked calmly down at the writhing object. He ignored the fast-gathering crowd.

"The hands of the foreign devils are strong," he said grimly. "Be thankful that I broke your ribs instead of your neck, son of a turtle :"

He went his way chuckling a little to himself. He knew now that the mandarin had lied, and that Benson had lied. The Ling Ti relics might be dispersed, but they were within reach,

"You have a lot of friends among these yellow folk, Benson!" he murmured complacently. "But I have a few myself. Still, I didn't think you'd go as far as this merely because I called you a liar. So it's war, is it? I'm satisfied:"

Jim Hanecy conferred long with the estimable Kiang, merchant in furs, that evening. He told Kiang all the truth, and the old son of Han smiled gently upon him.

"There will be no further attempts on your life in the streets, my friend," said Kiang complacently. "I will speak with certain members of my tong, and they will see to it. Still. I cannot answer for other places. May I unworthily advise that you tread with care, lest you step on the tail of a tiger."

Hanecy grinned.

"I'm used to tigers, Kiang, thanks all the same. So you know nothing about this treasure?"

Kiang knew nothing. He belonged to one of the historic families, had an extensive collection of Jade and calligraphy, and was certain that no ancient objects had been offered for sale generally. And thus the conference ended.

In the morning Hanecy went forth carrying a gun in the holster under his arm. He could not depend on Kiang's tong brethren for too much.

He realized that Benson was playing a big game of some kind, and that if he fought Benson he would be fighting some powerful and dangerous allies. Also, Benson's reference to the disappearance of Toptit worried him badly. Hanecy liked this Toptit, who made poetry and had a knack of ingratiating himself with the natives, but he hardly considered Toptit a match for the astute Benson.

The word "disappeared" had an ominous flavour, coming from Benson. Perhaps that had been a hint, a covert threat.

"If anything happened to poor Toptit, I'll make Benson sweat for it," thought Hanecy angrily. "Now, where to go? Ah! I think I'll take a trip to the Tu temple. The bonzes are good old sports and would put me wise to anything they knew."

This was no random cast. The Buddhist priests at the temple of the poet Tu were old friends of Hanecy, and were fairly reliable. They would have the whole countryside gossip on their tongues, and would have no traffic with Benson. The latter was notorious as an enemy of the bonzes, because of a certain barefaced robbery perpetrated on a Shantung temple. Benson and his satellites would keep away from Buddhist centres.

Hanecy summoned a chair and directed the bearers to the temple, which stood outside the south gate and across the Lo-han bridge. There were in reality two temples, standing beneath a grove of immense oaks and surrounded on three sides by the "Flower-washing river." When he entered the main gate Hanecy took the path to the right, and presently stood before the extremely beautiful spot known as "Master Tu's Shrine."

It was a small temple, a gem of architecture, set amid graceful bamboos and flowering trees: the court-yard was a huge and ancient garden, where orchids and the more delicate magnolias .gave the appearance of a jungle. Here and there were arbors for visitors. The entire place was in keeping with its poetical tradition, exquisitely beautiful.

HANECY, standing at the courtyard entrance, exchanged greetings with the old priest who appeared, and asked for the abbot in charge. The latter was away, but the bonze bade Hanecy enter and make free of the place until the junior abbot could receive him. To this Jim assented gratefully.

With a sigh of relaxation he removed his hat, wiped his brow and entered one of the orchid-heavy arbors to seat himself. He found himself face to face with Toptit.

"Thought I recognised your red topknot from afar!" exclaimed Toptit genially. "How did you know I was here?"

"I didn't know," Hanecy chuckled and inspected his professional rival with interest. About Toptit's head was wrapped a bandage of large proportions. "What hit you?"

"That's still a question," returned Toptit whimsically. "Did you get my message? I heard you were in town and sent word to the yamen―"

"The devil!" snapped Hancey, suddenly alert. "Then Benson knows where you're hiding!"

"Who said I was hiding?" demanded the other.

"Quit the comedy, Toptit! Benson is hand in glove with that cursed mandarin."

Toptit whistled and screwed up his angular face In a grimace. Then he laughed.

"Well, Benson won't get in here! The bonzes wouldn't let him past the outside gate. Who put you on the track of the Ling Ti treasure?"

"I heard about it." Hanecy sat down and produced his pipe. "What hit you?"

Toptit chuckled. "I don't know, I tell you. Somebody soaked me over the head two nights ago and threw me into the river. I crawled out over the promontory and had a chat with the boss priest here. I suspected Benson wanted to get me out of the way, since we had exchanged a few ill-natured words. I've been here ever since, writing sonnets, which the priests admire vastly, and having a good time."

Hanecy grinned at this and began to revise some of his notions about Toptit.

"You're not the fool you look," he observed.

"Thanks, sorrel-top. Same to you. Is Benson on your trail?"

"Maybe. And maybe I'm on his." Hanecy's steely eyes glinted.

"You must have some information about that Ling Ti stuff, or Benson's friend wouldn't have jumped you."

Toptit inspected him thoughtfully. "I've always heard," he said, "that you met a chap on the level."

"And parted with him on the square,"  Hanecy grinned again. "Well, shoot!"

"On a fifty-fifty basis."

Hanecy nodded.

Thus, in a few words, was the partnership arranged. It was almost the first personal meeting of the two men, yet reputation had preceded each of them, and the meeting clinched as truth what rumour had carried. Each man knew that the other could be fully trusted.

"I'm out of the game." Toptit grimaced again as he sat down, and he spoke soberly. "At least, I'm out of it for a time. There's a nasty cut under my shoulder."

"I thought they would have tried to make certain," said Hanecy. "Knocking a white man on the head and slinging him into the river is a rather dubious guarantee against his talking. Especially thick-headed white men. But go on."

"Spare the compliments," retorted Toptit. "Here's the real dope on that guy from Yunan. He came here with the stuff, but news had spread pretty fast. When he got here the mandarin tried to grab the whole business for himself, but the stubborn beggar refused to give it up and he got away from the yamen with it too. The mandarin sent soldiers after him, and they finally got him put a bullet slap into him. Well, he went into the river, and some of the loot went with him, and it's gone. Six pieces of it are left."

"Ah!" said Hanecy, biting on his pipestem.

"Where are the six?"

"Scattered between here and Chungking in pawnshops or other places. I have the list."

"Good work! If Benson had it..."

"He has it," said Toptit calmly.

"That's why I sent word to the yamen that message to you. Benson knows that I have the list. He won't go after the stuff until he's got me out of the way. Savvy? He knows now that I'm alive and kicking and still dangerous."

Hanecy regarded his compatriot with admiration.

"Say, I've underestimated you, old hoss! You're a cool devil. What's to hinder Benson going after the stuff while you're laid up here?"

"Local customs; Chungking is a treaty spot, and he would have to smuggle it through the customs there. He's afraid, if he gets it, I'll warn the customs people. That stuff would be grabbed by the government in a minute. He wants to put me under the sod first."

Hanecy nodded. With every moment he was gaining new respect for this Toptit, who, he perceived, was anything but the gangling, ignorant poet-Yankee he appeared.

"You'll hold Benson busy while get the stuff, is that it?" he queried.

"Something like that. It'll take time. The chap who found it originally had a lot of relatives up and down the river. The present holders are nearly all relatives. Of course, Benson will have the present owners watched. He'll know if you go after any of the stuff, and you can look for trouble. He may leave me alone, in fact, and go to it himself. That's your lookout."

"See here," said Hanecy, "don't you borrow any worry on my end. You give me that list and leave the rest to me."

"I have to get some of it myself― two or three pieces," returned Toptit. "I can do it, I think. You see, the fellows love poetry, and if I write 'em they'll deal with me, because a poem is a compliment."

"Benson doesn't deal in poems," said Hanecy. "What's the program?"

"AII right, suit yourself! Go get a jade tablet that's held by Yen Ching,   who has a pawnshop and drug store back of the Kuan ti temple."

"Eh? In the city here?" Hanecy frowned. "Why doesn't Benson get it?"

"Go and see." returned Toptit, with an irritating grin. "Bet you two cents you don't get the tablet."

Hanecy grunted and rose.

"I'll be back tomorrow with it," he said.

BECAUSE he believed in getting things done by doing them himself, Jim Hanecy went straight into the city, dismissed his chair,  and walked towards the Kuan-ti-miao, where the young gentlemen of Cheng-tu gathered by night in the spacious halls to amuse their bodies and souls with the various diversions of youth.

Hanecy discovered that he  was being trailed by a man in a black cap, a fur-trimmed blouse, and quilted trousers. Paying no attention to the  man, Hanecy sought out the shop of Yen Ching, a dirty, grimy little hole in the wall. He went inside. In the rear a group of men were smoking and taIking. The proprietor came to meet him, a yellow man with wispy moustaches and beard and keenly sparkling eyes that inquired Hanecy's business without any show of wonder at seeing a white man.

"You have a jade tablet here," said Hanecy without preamble. "May I inspect it?"

Yen Ching assented, in a dialect a little difficult to follow. He turned to a box on a shelf and held out to Hanecy a flat  of gray, reddish-dotted jade, ten inches in length and half as wide.  One edge of the half-inch slab was pierced with holes. Upon the surface was a single line of incised characters, the old picture writing of the Han period.

"What is your price on this?" asked Hanecy.

"It is not for sale," responded Yen Ching.

"I wish only to hear a price named―"

"That is impossible. I promised a friend to keep it six months. I am a man of honour."

"But your friend is dead!"

"He may come back," was the only response.

Hanecy knew himself blocked. Yen Ching's honour and his fear of a ghost-haunted future were insuperable to money. He copied the inscription on the tablet, thanked Yen Ching and departed.

He went straight home to Kiang's house. He had no doubt that the tablet was genuine, for it was unmistakable Han jade, such as is no longer found in China. It was, he conjectured, one of a number bound together by the pierced edges to form a jade book.

Kiang, who was quite scholar enough to read the Han ideographs, confirmed this with visible excitement upon seeing Hanecy's copy of the inscription.

"This is the tenth tablet of a jade-sacrificial book," he affirmed, "giving the virtues and honourable names of the Emperor Ling Ti. My friend, I congratulate you on finding such a thing! But I have heard of Yen Ching; he is a man of honour and will not sell the tablet until the six months of his promise have expired."

Hanecy swore under his breath. It was all he could do. He perceived that tills jade slab, even without its authentic historicity, would fetch a huge price. Any museum would stretch its means to get such a thing. But to wait six months or so―

"I'll go back and see Yen Ching again this afternoon," he said. Old Kiang merely smiled.

Useless though he knew it to be, Hanecy none the less started out when the heat of the afternoon was waning and directed his steps toward the old palace quarter. He had no definite intention beyond trying to get on some friendly basis with the pawnbroker.

Before he was half-way to his destination, however, he heard himself addressed In flawless Mandarin. Turning in some surprise, Hanecy saw at his elbow the man whom he had observed that morning― the man wearing a black cap, a fur-trimmed blouse and quilted trousers. The yellow man bowed and then took from beneath his blouse an object wrapped in faded silk.

"I was directed to give this to you, Excellency, with greetings from an humble and most unworthy friend who desires to please you."

The speaker immediately withdrew and disappeared in the crowd. Hanecy, frowning, opened the faded silk wrapping and disclosed the tenth tablet!

For an instant he was literally dumfounded. From whom could it have come, and why? As he strode along he could scarce credit his good fortune.

Hanecy was nearing the south gate when a nearly naked coolie wearing a white head-cloth the colour of mourning approached and spoke to him. He halted and listened.

When Jim Hanecy reached the Lohan bridge he found the traffic interrupted. Ahead of him was the temple of his destination; also ahead of him and occupying the centre of the bridge were a dozen soldiers and an officer of the mandarin's provincial army.

Concluding that some case of native jurisdiction was going forward, in which every one crossing the bridge was being halted and searched, or else that some criminal was being sought, Jim Hanecy carelessly strode ahead. To his surprise, the officer in charge stepped out in front of him.

"Why are you stopping me?" demanded Hanecy, who was accustomed to the deference accorded whites, and particularly Americans, in the Flowery kingdom.

"The orders are most strict, honourable sir," returned the officer. "We are posted here to apprehend a murderer."

"Ah!" Hanecy smiled. "You will know him by sight, I suppose."

"By search, Excellency. A merchant named Yen Ching was murdered this afternoon. His slayer carried off a highly valuable tablet of old Jade and several tins of opium, which is, of course, contraband. We have been given to understand that it will come this way."

HANECY inspected the crowd sharply. A steely glitter came into his eyes. He perceived that a clever trap had been set for him, and now he saw who had set the trap. It was Benson's doing, of course. Benson had sent his man to kill Yen Ching and steal the tenth tablet. Then, in order to get Hanecy out of the way for good and all, he had gone into partnership with the mandarin. The two were working together.

Seeing the white man hesitating, the soldiers drew in closer, and with them the crowd behind.

"I am an American." said Hanecy.

"Even if I had committed this crime, the mandarin could not Judge me. I must be sent to the consul at Chungking."

"That may be true, Excellency," said the officer. "I have nothing to do with it."

"Very well." Hanecy shrugged his shoulders. "I have a revolver in a holster. You can see by passing your hands over me that neither the jade not the opium is in my possession."

The officer apologised and leaned forward.

Now, any one who knew Jim Hanecy would have stood aghast at this. It was not his way to tamely stand up and be searched. It was not his way to act on the defensive at all. When Hanecy declared war he usually struck hard and fast.

He reddened a little under the humiliation, more fancied than real as the officer patted his pockets. Anger stirred in him deeply. When the officer stood back, looking a trifle dismayed, Hanecy eyed him with a grim smile.

"So, my friend! Now tell me the truth. You were informed that the Jade tablet would be in my possession. Is It not so? Your men were waiting here for me?"

The officer stammered. "Yes, Excellency, and the opium also."

Hanecy's eyes flittered.

"I don't forget he opium," he said crisply. "How much of It was stolen from the shop of Yen Ching?"

"Four ten-tael tins, Excellency. Yen Ching was found dead, clasping the smuggled case in his hands. Those who found him looked at once for the Jade tablet, which was his most valuable possession―"

"I see," said Hanecy. "Somebody came to get the jade, and, seeing the opium, decided to take that as well, eh? I suppose that I may pass by?"

The official bowed in some confusion. Jim Hanecy passed him, passed the soldiers, who were staring at him open-mouthed. It was evident that they had all been waiting there for Hanecy; that their stoppage of other persons was all a blind. Hanecy perceived the trap quite clearly. As Hanecy came to the little crowd of people waiting he whirled suddenly, paused and turned upon them.

There was a swift scattering, a bleat of terror; they knew, these yellow folk, when death was looking out of the eyes of a man! The hand of Jim Hanecy slipped to his armpit.

There was a sharp crack. He stood with a little curl of vapour rising from the tip of his pistol, then he shoved the weapon away. One of the crowd, a man who had been slinking back out of sight, lay outstretched and motionless. The soldiers ran in, shouting, to surround Hanecy. He did not move until the officer came up, then he turned and smiled grimly.

"That man," and he gestured toward the body, "is the one who murdered Yen Ching. Let search be made and the opium will be found upon him."

"That one!" cried the officer, taken aback. "Why, that is the one who―"

He checked himself suddenly.

Hanecy finished the sentence for him.

"That is the one who bore word to the yamen that I was guilty. Yes. I know it. Let the search be made quickly. I have no more time to waste."

The officer approached the body. The soldiers and yellow folk stared in dumb astonishment at the scene.

The officer knelt and searched the body of the dead man, the man who wore a black cap, a fur-trimmed blouse and quilted trousers. When the officer rose he held four tins of opium.

"Justice," said Hanecy drily, "is the rarest and most admirable of virtues. Return to the yamen with news of what has been done here. If my presence is desired, I shall be at the Tu-kung-tsu yonder."

The officer bowed, speechless, and motioned his men to fall away from Hanecy.

The American passed on without looking back at the scene. When he had left the bridge behind and was out of sight he removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. A dry laugh was on his lips.

"Justice!" he said. "Well, that's the sort of abstract justice these yellow men adore; the kind they understand. By tomorrow I'll be hailed far and wide as the light of Asia or something, eh? I sure hope that coolie shows up with the tenth tablet!"

HE wended his way to the temple where Toptit awaited him. He found Toptit in one of the arbors, busily inscribing verses upon a sheet of red paper.

Hanecy told his partner exactly what had transpired.

Toptit listened in silence, made one or two corrections in his last verse, and then broke the silence.

"You are cursed reckless, Hanecy," he said. "How did you know that the man was the murderer?"

"I didn't," and Hanecy chuckled. "That was the gamble. It looked as though whoever stole the Jade had caught Yen Ching with some opium, and had hooked the opium of his own account. Then, of course, Benson had kept him busy ever since laying that trap for me. I gambled that the opium was on him― and it was."

"But the Jade?" exclaimed Toptit. "You calmly handed it over to that coolie―"

"Sure." Hanecy lighted his pipe and relaxed comfortably.

"Old Kiang had sent the coolie to me, savvy? Sent him to catch me with word that there was some sort of a trap in prospect. So I handed over the jade tablet. He promised to bring it here."

"A coolie's promise!" grunted Toptit.

"Well, I told you the fellow had a white mourning rag on, didn't I?" Hanecy expelled a whiff of smoke. "He was Yen Ching's brother, and here he is now!"

They leaped up as a man appeared before the arbour, accompanied by one of the priests. It was the coolie, and he bore the tenth tablet.

"Lucky devil!" murmured Toptit.

Hanecy only grinned.

___________________

3: The Emperor's Amulet

Sunday Star, Washington DC, 18 Dec 1921

JIM HANECY stood in the street outside the house of mourning and inspected his enemy with a prim smile.

"Smallpox," he said curtly. "Going in with me, Benson?"

Benson, who was one of the biggest curio dealers and agents in China, shook his head. Only the glitter in his short-sighted eyes betrayed his vivid hatred of Jim Hanecy. He was a rather small man, soft-spoken, very deadly, allied with all the forces of graft and evil in China.

"The game isn't worth the candle," he answered.

Hanecy regarded him with that same thin, dangerous smile on his bronzed hatchet face. The two men stood In a side street of Cheng-tu. Somewhere in or near this city, 1,500 miles from the coast, were a number of objects recently taken from the grave of the Emperor Ling Ti of the Han dynasty― objects which, from an historical and artistic standpoint of value, were worth their weight in roubles to any collector or museum. One of those objects had been in the possession of the man who had just died of smallpox.

"One word, Benson," said Hanecy slowly. "You're a clever devil. The mandarin here is working for you.  You'd cheerfully pay high to have me killed. Now, Benson, you're too slick to give me any excuse for coming to you and putting a bullet into your ugly hide― but you look out! All I want is the excuse."

Benson produced a cigarette and lighted it. He knew that Jim Hanecy would shoot him if given an excuse. Hanecy had a reputation for keeping his word― but Benson was a man who never lost his head. So now he refused to let himself be snared into saying anything. Hanecy was only talking from suspicion, anyway.

"You have gone into partnership with Toptit, haven't you?" Benson inquired casually.

"I have!" snapped Hanecy. "And we mean to get the whole Ling Ti outfit."

Benson smiled, waved his cigarette with an assurance that maddened Hanecy, and responded: "There's one piece you won't get. nobody will get It! That's the piece In there, the tongue-amulet of Ling Ti. It's been lost. The man Is dead."

"You're such a cursed liar I'd hate to believe you," said Hanecy sourly.

"Then go in and ask."

Hanecy turned on his heel and strode Into the house of mourning.

Benson glanced after him with a vivid gleam in his eyes, then shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

A few moments later Jim Hanecy came from the house, frowningly. After all, Benson had told him the truth― probably had discovered it through the local mandarin or from official sources. The emperor's amulet had disappeared some days previously while the man lay sick. Now the man was dead and the amulet was gone.

"Touch luck," murmured Hanecy. "Old Toptit will throw a fit when he finds It's been lost. One of Benson's crooks may have stolen it― but I rather think not."

He slowly retraced his steps through the crowded streets to the house of old Kiang, the fur merchant, where his friend and partner, Toptit. awaited him. So far as the emperor's amulet was concerned, there seemed to be a complete checkmate.

IN THE Hsuo-tau-kai, or street of bookshops, a naked little yellow boy was playing with a peculiar object which he had picked from a garbage pile In the gutter. This plaything appeared to be a dead cicada, about two inches in length, of a beautiful transparent leaf-green. The boy had Inserted a cord through a hole in the nose, and drew the cicada after him by the cord. It was a very pretty plaything.

A poor scholar, who was earnest enough but more ignorant than his title justified, was sitting in contemplation when the boy passed him. Ignorant or clever, scholars are scholars the world over. This yellow man with the horn spectacles saw what the boy was playing with and realized that no real cicada would last ten minutes at such a game; also, that this cicada seemed to be petrified or carved from stone. He called to the boy, and the cicada changed hands for a matter of two coppers cash.

Examining his purchase, the scholar found that the cicada really was carved from stone― a stone resembling jade, but like no jade that he had ever seen.

On the belly were cut two characters of some ancient script which he could not read. Determining that it was a luck-piece, the scholar tucked it into his girdle and took his accustomed way to the south gate, toward the temple of the famous minister, Chu-ko Liang, where he was wont to study the two memorials of this great man― the memorials which have become classics and sources of political inspiration to China.

Now, there were a number of things about this cicada which the poor scholar did not know and probably; never would know, since he was a mere learner of words and not an ethnologist. In ancient China a body was not embalmed. Instead, it was stuffed with jade, for jade was the essence, of the yang. or male principle of the universe, which would keep the body from corruption by the yin or female forces of the earth.

This at least was the theory. Even in the Han period, also, there was a belief in the resurrection of the dead, and hence into the mouth of the corpse was slipped a bit of Jade carved in the shape of a cicada. The cicada, like the beetle of the Egyptians, was a symbol of the resurrection, and the jade cicada laid on the tongue of a dead man was an amulet to guide him to the new life.

Leaving the south gate, the scholar passed on to the group of walled temples just outside the city. Entering these by the main gateway on the south, the scholar quickly went to the third and innermost gateway and found himself in the temple of the great general and minister.

With all the awful concentration of a scholar, he Ignored the gardens. the lake, the harp arbour; he ignored the hall, with its bronze drums brought by Chu-ko Liang from Burmese conquests, with its magnificent pictures and poems left there by great artists through hundreds of years as memorials. Instead of these things, the scholar seated himself before the stones of the outer walls, upon which were inscribed the political testaments of the statesman, and set himself to study and contemplate and reflect. The scholar was doubtless improving his soul, but he was killing a tremendous amount of time in doing it.

Some time afterward the pangs of hunger apprised the scholar that he had not eaten. His lunch money had gone to buy a luck-piece. He took the cicada from his girdle and inspected it critically; in view of the absence luncheon, he did not now care so much for the thing. A sound of clinking coins sharply roused the scholar. He glanced up to see a man at his side, gazing at the cicada and making money-talk. The inference was obvious. The man was a merchant, an old fellow with wispy gray moustaches and bleary eyes. His name was Wang, and he dealt in books; also, he was learned in many things― a reader of his own wares. Wang: bought the cicada for a small string of cash.

He bought It hastily without daring to show his eagerness or to examine it very closely, and then shuffled off with the cicada clutched in his palm; while the scholar departed to seek substantial nourishment.

Two minutes later Wang paused outside the main entrance of the temple and opened his clenched fist. The very touch of the cool, sweet stone thrilled him; the feel of the wondrous polished patina against his sweaty old palm was an ecstasy. He paid no regard to the fact that other men were all around, coming and going He was immensely proud of what he had just bought, and was in avid haste to confirm his first hasty impression.

He looked at the green stone insect resting in his hand. He noted the clear quality of the stone. Its leaf-green colour, the deftness with which the artist had made dark spots nestle like natural Insect colouring in the wings of the cicada. Wang, who had studied much, knew that this was not the ordinary jade, fetched in from Turkestan by the hundredweight. It was genuine Chinese jade, such as had not been found in China except very rarely for about 2,000 years.

"Han yu!" The words escaped his lips in rapt admiration―as much for his own cleverness as for the stone's beauty. "Han yu! Jade of the Hans! A tongue amulet from a grave!"

He turned over the cicada to examine the two ideographs on Its belly, but they were beyond his ability to read. Thus, examining his find, he did not see that two men had heard his exclamation and had exchanged a swift glance.

Han yu, to any native who knows, has much the same significance that "Free gold, by George!" would have to an old-time California mining camp. In other words, it is apt to start something.

Old Wang tucked away the cicada, his wispy moustaches, and shuffled toward the city gate with a rapt smile on his silly old face. Behind him followed two men, who, by their costume, were evidently members of the provincial soldiery maintained by the local mandarin. By their faces they were bandits. Which amounted to exactly the same thing.

The two soldiers knew that a white man was the guest of the mandarin, and they had heard a great deal of talk about Han yu and other things. They knew that the white man was one of the largest dealers in antiques on the coast, and was thick as a brother with the mandarin. As to the mandarin himself, they were far too well acquainted with him to have any tears on the score of future punishment.

Old Wang, taking the shortest cuts home, plunged into the Street of Ten Thousand Bright Flowers. This was an evil little alley occupied by crowded tenements. It was at the moment deserted except for a few children playing in the garbage.

Now was accomplished a mysterious and startling thing. Beyond doubt. Wang, the bookseller, had entered that alley at one end, but he did not come out at all! Instead of Wang, two soldiers came out at the other end, moved a few feet distant to a patch of shade, and squatted down. One of them replaced a knife in his sleeve, the other handed him some clinking coins.

"There is half the money."

"Ah! And the Han yu?"

"That is in my girdle. Let us not go hastily about this. If we offer it to the white man―"

"He will buy it. He deals in such things:"

"True." The more astute robber scratched his nose reflectively. "But, remember, there is a mandarin in the yamen. Beyond doubt, the mandarin will take all the money that the white man should pay us."

"Ah! Quite true," assented the other. "Stay! Is there not another white man living at the Tu-kung temple?"

The first bandit nodded and grinned. "Go to that shop across the street and buy some wax. Then come back."

The second man obeyed, keeping his eye carefully on his comrade.

When he returned with the wax the first man took it, divided it into two portions, and into each portion firmly pressed the belly side of the cicada.

He grave his comrade one of the portions.

"Go you to the yamen. Seek the white man, tell him that I have this Han yu, and will meet him just outside the south gate If he wishes to buy It. Meantime, I will go to the other white man, tell him that you have the Han yu, and get an offer on it. They will see from the two characters what it represents. The one who offers most will get it."

The two mulled over this scheme for half an hour. There were no flaws in it when they had finished. With his wax impression, one soldier betook himself to the mandarin's yamen, not far from the south gate.

Here he obtained audience with Benson―a private audience― and gave his very good reason for keeping the mandarin out of business. He told all about the cicada, which, according to his story, had been found in the belly of a fish taken from the river, and bought by his comrade, who was waiting. He described It exactly, and Benson began to get excited. The thing might really be a Han Jade. But when Benson saw the wax impression he had hard work to keep his jubilation from showing. The two characters he recognized instantly as the name of Ling Ti. This leaf-green cicada was the amulet of the emperor―  the amulet that had been lost!

HANECY reclined at his ease in a room of the Tu-kung temple, where his partner, Toptit, was domiciled, was in one of his rarely talkative moods. Toptit was pretending to write more poetry, but was in reality jotting down what Hanecy said― for he knew that Hanecy had been long in the land and was wise in many ways.

"There are several kinds of antique dealers, Toptit. One kind. gets stuff on consignment, much of it from me; he has a goodly patter about Kien Lung, Han periods and so forth. He doesn't know that there were three distinct Han periods― and his customers think he's a wonder.

"Then there's the royal ass, who comes to China every three or four years and buys what I have stored up. He goes back home and shoots the bull about how he picked these things up here and there― gets good prices, too. He's usually called an authority. He's the one who gets up auction catalogues and refers any old bronze to Shang or Chou, especially if it has a date. He doesn't know that ancient date marks spells fraud.

"Then there's the man who has a firm, and who spends his time here picking up stuff. He knows the game down to the ground, has every millionaire collector spotted and on his strings, and gets ten thousand for the right netsuke or snuff bottle. He's on the level with his customers, although he'd just as soon steal his stuff from the National Museum at Peking if he had to get it that way."

"Ah!" said Toptit with interest. "That's Benson."

"That's Benson," said Hanecy, grinning.

"So you're going down-river in the morning, are you?"

Toptit nodded soberly.

"Yes. I'm going to trail down some more of this Ling Ti stuff. It seems certain that the emperor's amulet is lost, so we'd better transfer our attention to the other things. You think Benson will trail me―"

"No― but you'll be trailed," said Hanecy drily. He yawned and rose. "Well, so long! I'll be around In the morning to see that you get off safe."

He left the little temple of the eighth-century poet and patriot. He was leaving the gateway of the large temple In whose grounds stood the Tu kuns-tsz, he was halted by a man whose garb showed him to be one of the soldiery from the local yamen. The soldier did not know that there were two white men there, so he naturally addressed Hanecy.

"Heavenborn, we have heard that you buy old Jade, especially Han yu," said the man humbly enough. "My comrade and I bought from a fisherman a jade which he took from the belly of a river fish. It Is of green stone..."

He described the cicada minutely, and showed the wax impression that he carried.

"Ah!" said Hanecy. "And where Is this green insect?"

"My comrade Is keeping it, heavenborn. His duties detain him, and I promised  to bring you if you would care to see it."

Hanecy reflected. He knew that the local mandarin was hand In glove with Benson, and he rather suspected some trick here, some trap to ensnare him. Still, what matter? That wax Impression showed the name of Line Ti In characters unmistakably Han, and if Benson had secured the thing Hanecy was perfectly willing to match wits and take it away from him. Risk did not bother him appreciably.

"Where is your comrade now?" demanded Hanecy.

"Near the south gate, heavenborn."

"Very well."

They walked on together, Hanecy a little in the lead. To the city gate was a comfortable walk, although a pleasant one, by the Lohan bridge and the river road, past the ancient temples. The afternoon was wearing on. As they passed the walled precincts of Chu-ko Liang's temple a poor scholar came from the entrance and plodded slowly after them, blinking dreamily through his spectacles, his mind lost in contemplation of the noble maxims which Chu-ko- Ling ha transmitted to posterity.

Hanecy, as he strode along, was certain of crooked work somewhere..

This cicada had come from no fish belly; it was the one lost by the smallpox victim. How had the soldiers obtained It? Through Benson, Of course. It was the scented lure to some fine trap.

"Good enough," thought Hanecy confidently. "If they want to set a trap, I'll spring the trap and grab the bait. And I only hope Benson shows up In person."'

He was utterly wrong In his suspicions, of course. In this instance he was being made the butt of a fate which was inexorable and insatiate.

THEY came to the gate, a narrow  entrance in the high walls where ideographed advertisements and bandit rewards were pasted on the stones. Many folk were going in and out past the loafing guards.

The soldier glanced around, saw that his comrade had not yet arrived with Benson, and touched the arm of Hanecy.

"Heavenborn,  come with me to a place of waiting, Then I will return and speak with my comrade. It is necessary to avoid suspicion from the others―"

"Very well," said Hanecy grimly, thinking of the trap.

He followed the soldier to a house a hundred yards distant. His pistol ready, he entered and was guided to a vacant room. This was a gambling house, he perceived.

His guide seemed to be known here. Once in the room the soldier asked bluntly what the cicada was worth to Hanecy. The American silently produced a hundred taels in notes of the local government.

"I will get the stone from my comrade, heavenborn," eagerly said the soldier,  and departed. Hanecy sat waiting, pistol in hand, but nothing happened.

Meanwhile had come to the gate the poor scholar, mumbling to himself the maxims of Chu-ko Liang. At the gateway he paused, glancing over he papers posted on the wall.  Among them was news of the murder of the prominent bookseller Wang, who body had been found shortly after noon in the Street of Ten Thousand Bright Flowers.

There was a reward for the murderer, offered by the family of Wang, of five hundred silver dollars― ta-yang-chien.

The poor scholar read these notices the temple, after buying that green cicada from him. Aghast and Incredulous the scholar stood there gaping at the notices like a man dazed, forgetful of all around him. His single track mind was centered wholly upon Wang, the green cicada and the murder.

Thus stood the situation when Benson, accompanying the soldier who had summoned him, came from the nearby yamen to buy the emperor's amulet.

Hanecy's soldier, with the green cicada In his hand, stood Inside the city gate and waited patiently. He had Hanecy safe in case Benson refused to give as much as a hundred taels. When he saw his comrade approach with Benson In tow he made a sign that all was well.

At this instant, a crucial Instant in Fate's plan, the poor scholar came through the gate, driven as a loiterer by the soldiers. Benson followed his guide to the soldier who awaited them. The latter silently opened his hand and showed the green stone, and Benson's eyes widened.

"How much, Excellency?" asked the soldier. "This Is a true Han yu, as you can see."

Benson took the green cicada, held It up, examined it closely. Six feet away the poor scholar came to a dead halt, gaping at the stone in astounded recognition.

He was unobserved by the three, for folk were eddying all around him, staring curiously at the white man.

Then from the scholar burst a chattering shout:

"Help! These are the men who murdered the bookseller Wang in the Street of Ten Thousand Bright Flowers! That green-stone Insect―"

Provincial soldiers who vary their legitimate occupation with a spice of banditry on the side are by no means fools, Benson was no fool either, but he was caught by surprise. As he glanced up at the sudden shout, one of the two men snatched the stone from his hand; the other checked the scholar's outburst with a knife-thrust. Immediately the street was flung Into mad confusion. The poor scholar lay gasping out his life, while above him trampled a wild throng. Murder and sudden death hovered close. The only persons In the crowd who actually knew what was going on were the two soldiers. And when Benson tried to find them, furious at what had happened, they were gone.

THE soldiers straightened out the crowd In short order, but there was none to explain. The poor scholar lay dead. Benson shrugged his shoulders at questions, pretending he did not understand. A good many precious minutes were wasted while the officer in charge of the gate was eliciting from the throng just what had taken place.

Finally it was realized that the scholar had been wantonly murdered by a soldier, and from the description the men recognised their comrade. The officer reflected a while, then remembered that his men were great patrons of the nearby gambling house.

"Two of you will remain with me to watch the gate," he said.

"The rest of you search Ma Jen's gambling house and the nearby dwellings. The murderer has fled there for hiding." In this, by chance, the officer was quite correct.

Sitting in the empty room, with only a brick bed and a jar that smelled of sam shu to keep him company, Jim Hanecy waited for something to happen. He felt so certain that he had walked into a trap of Benson's devising that he was anxious to get busy.

His nerves were on a hair-trigger edge. Not a sound reached him. He guessed that at this time of day every one in the gambling joint was asleep. A slow and Insidious doubt that this could be a trap gradually rose in his mind. That soldier had lied, of course, but had not told the sort of lies Benson would have instigated. Benson was too clever to hand out that fish-belly stuff

A scurry of hastening feet in the passage. Hanecy's hand slid toward his armpit, then paused.

"By the blessing of the five bats!" said the voice of the soldier who had guided him.

"Here is the place and there is no time to lose If we are to carry our heads safe out of the city! Take the money and be satisfied, fool!"

Another voice grumbled something inaudible.

The door was flung open. Hanecy rose as the two soldiers entered and closed the door. They were panting, their eyes showed fierce excitement, the hand of the one was red with hastily wiped blood.

Hanecy perceived that much had been going on somewhere, but he was too wise to ask any incautious questions.

"Here is my comrade, heavenborn," said the first soldier hurriedly. "He has the green stone. Give us the money and let us depart."

Hanecy extended the sheaf of notes.

The soldier tucked them away, then turned with an angry gesture to his comrade.  "The green stone, quickly! Give him the Han yu!"

"First give me my money," scowled the other. "Besides, how do I know the money Is good? It Is not silver―"

"Oh. turtle's offspring! Can I not be trusted to know good yln-piao? Here, take your share. But, by the wu fu, give him the jade quickly―"

The scowling, hesitant bandit produced the green cicada. Hanecy took it and slipped the stone into his pocket. His lips clenched grimly. What went Into that pocket of his did not come out easily. He was still suspicious, watchful, very alert. All this looked too good to be true.

The first soldier was turning to the door when his comrade, who had been examining the notes given him, uttered an angry exclamation.

"Here, vile one! There are only thirty taels here― the price was one hundred! Where are the other twenty, thief?"

As he spoke, a knife leaped out into his hand.

The first soldier uttered a curse and tugged at his ragged girdle. A revolver showed in his hand and an explosion filled the room with black powder fumes. Close upon that explosion came two sharp, brutal reports. Hanecy had no doubt whatever that this was a mock quarrel, designed to catch him off guard and finish him. When the knife showed, his hand was at the butt of his automatic. When the revolver came out he ducked across the room and fired twice. He did not need to look to verify the result.

A bedlam of trampling feet, shrieks, shouts and curses filled the building. Hanecy did not open the door, but darted to the window that lighted the room and dropped Into an alley.

"I believe I was wrong, after all," reflected Hanecy. "I don't think Benson was responsible for this affair in the least, to give the devil his due! He would never have let that amulet get into my hands. The facts probably are that those two bandits back there framed up a game to rob and murder me. I expect they got the amulet by killing some one else. I don't think I need waste much pity on them."

Anybody who knew Hanecy would have smiled at this last, for Hanecy was too strictly an apostle of efficiency to waste any sympathy whatever. He lived very largely by risking his neck, and he desired to go on living for a long time.

As soon as Hanecy emerged from the rabbit-warren of alleys into a street he perceived that the quarter was boiling with excitement. The government buildings were close by, so he made his way to the yamen and asked questions as he went. From those around Hanecy learned that a. poor scholar had been wantonly murdered near the south gate and that search was being made for the murderers, who were known. This gave him no clue, for he did not connect the matter with his two soldiers, so he determined to stick around and
see what happened next. He called an empty sedan chair, gave the bearers a coin, and told them to wait for him. Then he sauntered toward the yamen.

Presently a surge of the crowd gave way before a group of soldiers, who bore two dead men in their midst. These were seen to be two of the yamen guard, and the bodies were placed on exhibition.

There was new excitement when a proclamation was brought forth and posted above the bodies.

Hanecy read that proclamation, standing back in the crowd.

It was to the effect that the ways of the gods were Inscrutable and very profound. These two murderers had fled to a room In the gambling house of Ma Jen, where they had quarrelled. One of them had drawn a revolver and shot one cartridge. That one bullet had, by the Inevitable laws of justice, pierced both the murderers― directed by the hand of the gods, that same bullet had shot each man between the eyes!

In evidence of this supernatural fact, the revolver was displayed.

Hanecy turned away, got out of the crowd, and climbed Into his waiting sedan chair. He directed the bearers to the house of Kiang, the fur dealer, on the other side of the city, and then sat back with a smile on his lips.

"Great is the justice of the mandarin!" he murmured, and patted the emperor's amulet with much satisfaction. "I don't understand all this― but I'm satisfied."

And he tucked some tobacco into his brier, chuckling to himself.

_______________________

4: The Tiger Hilt

The Sunday Star, Washington, DC,  25 Dec 1921

TOPTIT stood on the deck of a red-and-gold, silk-curtained river boat lent him for the trip and gazed out over the most fertile and thickly-crowded-plain in the world― that of the Min river below Cheng-tu. He was a Yankee, a palpable Yankee; long and loose-jointed and earnest, with a twinkle lurking In his eye which bespoke many unguessed possibilities in that fertile brain of his.

Toptit was on a dangerous errand. He was undoubtedly being trailed by yellow-skinned hands, and he had a half-healed knife wound under his left arm. But all he thought of as he gazed, over this historic plain, over the sweet tree-lined river, with its gorgeous pleasure craft and its crowded trading junks, was of a suitable rhyme for "Cheng-tu." Needless to add. he found none.

Toptit was a poet. You shall not be bored with examples of his art. Suffice it to say that he made known everywhere that he was a poet. This was good for business, and he was in China on business only, and was conducting it along original lines. Chinese gentlemen have no particular regard for dealers and agents who seek antiques , old rugs, or fake Han bronzes, but they have an unqualified respect for poets, whose nature they understand thoroughly. Toptit was in the enviable position of making poetry pay.

At the present moment Toptit was travelling down-river in search of a certain object taken from the grave of Ling Ti, an emperor of the Eastern Han dynasty. Toptit had left his partner, Jim Hanecy, back in Cheng-tu, and was wandering forth on his own.

"Wandering" is the correct word. He was seeking the floating home of a river pawnbroker and pirate by the name of Kang Ho, who was in possession of a tiger hilt. Toptit had no idea what this tiger hilt was: he was operating on purely verbal information. Whatever it was, he wanted it. As an authentic possession of the Emperor Ling Ti It was worth a fortune to any collector.

His boatmen, who were quite reliable, would locate the craft of Kang Ho and put him on board. After that his fate was in his own hands.

"At the best my fate is none too good. Business isn't what it used to be," reflected Toptit with a sigh, after failing to find any rhyme for Cheng-tu.

"The interior decorators back home have educated the public up to relish being faked. The real stuff is going out of fashion. Fortunately, we always have markets with museums and collectors. I hope this Kang Ho chap will appreciate poetry. I must have an ode to the river all ready to paralyse him with."

He set to work translating his verses into the local dialect, which, luckily, required no rhymes at all. Toptit ignored the fact that agents of a rival dealer were after the tiger hilt: he also ignored the fact that the mandarin of the province was after it for himself, and after Toptit as well. Little things like these did not worry Toptit at all.

About fifteen miles down the river from Cheng-tu his boatmen located Kang Ho. The trading junks, after the usual river custom, were all huddled together, irrespective of the fact that the river was wide. Pleasure craft darted about here and there. Gentry of uncertain business, like Kang Ho, went anywhere their houseboats could find enough water.

It was not hard to locate Kang Ho; It would have been hard not to locate him. His craft was a huge houseboat. almost a floating fortress. It  lay by itself near a little promontory. Alongside it lay the official revenue cutter of the mandarin. Above the two craft hung a haze of black powder smoke, and muskets were banging gaily. As Toptit's little barge drew near two revenue men were flung from the deck of the houseboat and the official cutter withdrew.

Toptit gazed curiously at the gigantic figure of Kang Ho, firing a musket after his late assailants. The riverman was a huge ruffian, nearly seven feet tall, and built in proportion. What his face lacked in refinement it made up in force.

Observing the approaching barge, Kang Ho bellowed to his men― a choice lot of scoundrels― and prepared to repel boarders anew. Toptit's head  boatman hesitated and came to him for orders.

"Go ahead." said Toptit with a smile.

Kang Ho regarded the foreign devil with a scowling suspicion.

Ten feet from the floating fortress Toptit ordered his rowers to back water. He stood in the bow of his craft and started to paralyse Kang Ho with his river ode, which he recited fluently.

YOU must not think Toptit crazy. Quite the contrary! Kang Ho learned a great deal from that ode, which Toptit had composed with cunning skill. He learned that his foreign devil was a poet, spoke the dialect fairly well, and was under the ban of the law besides. A powerful appeal in this last.

The humour of it struck Kang Ho. The Chinese, and particularly the lower classes, have a strong and rather Rabelaisian sense of humour. Perceiving there was nothing to fear from this foreign devil, feeling quite satisfied with his own recent exploit, and entertaining that fatal sense of curiosity which rules the primitive mind, Kang Ho laid aside his weapons and Invited Toptit aboard.

Toptit clambered over the rail of the houseboat and then told his boatmen to go home.

They did so without delay.

"I am honoured." said Kang Ho, inspecting his visitor. "I am unworthy to entertain so distinguished a guest."

Toptit. who believed in politeness for a time, replied with the customary phrases.

About him were clustered the grinning rivermen, exchanging pleasantries and obviously looking forward to his speedy decease. Toptit, however, remarked to Kang Ho, with his most Innocent manner, that so powerful a man deserved to have a real rifle instead of an ancient musket. At this Kang Ho threw two snarling words at his men and they vanished. Kang Ho could take a hint.

"If It will please you to occupy my humble quarters," he told Toptit, "I shall be happy. I must change the location of this poor boat without delay. Presently I shall join you. If you would care to pass the time with a singsong girl, or―"

Toptit blushed and said he preferred to be alone.

Accordingly, Kang Ho led him to a cabin amidships, plainly that of the pirate himself. Here he left Toptit― and locked the door when he went out.

So far everything looked perfectly open and clear-cut. Toptit found the room arranged in barbaric splendour with looted goods. On a table, beside an opium outfit, lay an object of bronze, elegantly chased, in the shape of a tiger, and bearing a magnificently incrusted aerugo― a sheened coat laid on by two thousand years of earth action.

Toptit picked It up, saw that it was a sword hilt, and realized that he held in his hand the tiger hilt of Ling Ti. He gazed at it in silent admiration. It  resembled malachite rather than bronze, so richly had its long burial enhanced its beauty. Here were red and pearl where the original bronze was exposed; elsewhere a sheen of baffling hues― turquoise blue, rich greens, yellow and white mottling.

Sighing. Toptit laid down the tiger hilt. Another man might have thought the affair concluded, finished, save for the bargaining, the end in sight. Toptit knew better. The boat was massively built on the exterior, but the interior was a flimsy shell. As he lighted a cigarette and reclined on a corner divan, the American could hear a musical instrument tinkling somewhere, with a woman's reedy voice rising thinly.

From the character of the song, which would, have done much credit to the palmiest composer of Gomorrah, he judged that the ladies aboard the craft were not exactly Sunday school teachers on vacation. The opium layout was richly made, and probably belonged, like the ladies, to Kang Ho.

"All this is very illuminating if not precisely elevating." thought Toptit. "If there is nothing better to do, I'd better make myself solid with the tall gentleman.".

A table held some fine mandarin's paper, with brushes, water and ink slabs. Toptit sat down and inscribed his ode in flourished ideographs. He was not too sure of his writing and he certainly was no remarkable calligrapher with anything above six-stroke characters. But he turned out a product that could be read. With a larger brush and blacker Ink he made a prominent inscription to his friend and patron the heroic Kang Ho. This done, Toptit pinned the paper to a brocade on the wall. He was still admiring the effect when the door opened and Kang Ho entered.

The brawny pirate saw the paper and read the inscription. His face expanded in a grin of flattered egotism.

"Even as a great mandarin, I am honoured by the memorial of a poet,"'  he exclaimed. "Be seated, my friend. This is a lucky day. I believe that you have brought the luck of the five bats with you. Hai, offspring of turtles― hasten!"

IN response to His bellow, two of the crew entered, bearing hot wine, cakes, tea and other light refreshments.

Kang Ho drank three cups of hot wine, then he took from the table the tiger hilt, and leered at Toptit.

"I know about you," he said. You are one of those foreign devils who go about looking for strange things of ancient times. Well, here is one of those things! I lent a man ten silver liang upon it― but he is dead and cannot claim it again. You have honoured me with a great poem. Be pleased to accept this slight gift from Kang Ho."

Toptit pocketed the bronze with fitting thanks.

"This is an auspicious day, said Kang Ho. "But there was some mention of a rifle."

"Exactly," returned Toptit. "I shall give you an excellent rifle if you will: send a man to Cheng-tu when I return. The poem is less than nothing. The rifle is a fitting gift."

"The poem in to the rifle as jade to bass stone," said Kang Ho politely. Nevertheless. I shall be pleased to have it."

Toptit reflected that with a poem and a rifle he had accomplished what all the power of the mandarin could not have done. None the less, he had an uneasy conviction that the end of the matter was going to be otherwise than the beginning. And he was right.

Toptit had an unfortunate knack of getting his business done in remarkably short order―and there were usually complications. It does not  always pay to hurry in China. People take things for granted. Kang Ho was just now taking something very much for granted. There was no way of changing his mind, either, without provoking unpleasant possibilities.

"There is a man with whom I have a feud," said Kang Ho, after his twenty-fourth cup of wine. "He is Ngig Po Tui, from the Yellow river, and he has no business on this river at all. So I shall make him eat gold, and you shall help me."

"To eat gold" does not obtain literally. although many white men think it does. Toptit knew better. He perceived that he was in for some throat-slitting.

"I would suggest," he said calmly, "that you remember I have enemies."

"Ah!" Kang Ho emptied another cup and grinned. "Enemies are sent to make life Interesting for such men as us, my friend. Come let us go."

He rose. Toptit sighed and followed suit. After all, there was something engaging about this giant ruffian of the river. Besides. Toptit could not I go back to Cheng-tu until Kang Ho sent him He had burned his bridges, and must take the penalty.

"I am a terrible coward, he said,

"So am I!" and Kang Ho poked him in the ribs with a jovial elbow. They left the cabin together.

There was a sampan trailing at the stern of the craft, and into this Kang Ho dropped. He indicated that Toptit was to follow.

Toptit followed. He guessed that behind the seeming simplicity and ease of this affair was a good deal he did not yet understand. Also, he had his own method of doing things, and he had a surprising way of appearing most innocent when he was not.

So he climbed into the stern of the sampan. Kang Ho waved adieu to his genial pirates at the rail above. then took a pair of oars midships. An ordinary sampan is not managed thus, but this was no ordinary sampan― it was a boat stolen from some river steamer, cleverly disguised with straw― and Kang Ho was no ordinary pirate.

TOPTIT could see nothing of any enemy. Kang Ho's floating fortress had been moored to the bank beneath some willows, and there was no other craft in the vicinity. Out in the midstream a group of salt-junks were towing each other like a string of silly sheep in a wide meadow.

Kang Ho bent over his oars and grinned.

On his head was now perched a coolie's wide hat, and his huge figure was covered by a coat of roughly plaited straw. Now he paused and vouchsafed his guest some enlightenment.

"Ngig Po Tui is smuggling salt and opium from Chungking," he stated. "He pays the mandarin at Cheung-tu  to protect his industry. Further he sometimes takes commissions to do certain business for the mandarin."

Toptit looked interested. Obviously this good-humoured giant of a pirate  was nobody's fool! Ngig, whoever the fellow was, had undoubtedly ingratiated himself with the mandarin who was enjoying a bit of easy graft.

Kang Ho rowed steadily up river for a space. Then, pausing again, he completed his tardy information.

"Ngig Po Tui is a son of many devils" he announced. "It is understood that if you are  given passage to your ancestors somebody at the yamen will pay a thousand dollars. So Ngig Po Tui came to me and agreed to divide the reward. Another five hundred dollars was offered the bronze object now in your pocket.

"You will understand that I am taking you and the bronze object to Ngig Po Tui, who offered  immediate payment of my half of the reward on delivery."

"What the devil!" ejaculated Toptit. Kang Ho grinned at him with familiar assurance. He returned to the local dialect. "Then you and Ngig Po Tui are not enemies?"

"He has not yet awaked to the fact," said Kang Ho complacently.

"Is he near here?"

"Within a mile. Seeing us coming alone, he will suspect nothing. Leave it to me."

Toptit reflected.

He had plainly chanced upon a tide In the affairs of men which bade fair to run to his liking: more or less. Springing that poem with the inscription upon Kang Ho had been a lucky stroke. A river pirate, however, even in China, does not throw up a chance at seven hundred and fifty dollars unless there is a prospect of much better pay ahead.

It was not unlikely that Kang Ho intended to obliterate his river enemy, then to destroy Toptit and kill several birds with one stone.

"The big rascal is letting me in for something sweet!" meditated the American, not altogether happily.  "He thinks I'll be so grateful for the bronze that I'll be unsuspicious. Well, I won't!"

He watched Kang Ho, but failed to detect anything but good-natured ease in the broad yellow countenance. There had been no question of weapons. This was a queer sort of raiding party, thought Toptit. At all events, he had the bronze In one pocket and an automatic pistol in another pocket .and the shore was not far away.

Kang Ho sent the sampan swirling upstream, keeping close to the bank. Several times he paused to observe the drift, throwing in small bits of straw. Toptit noticed that there was a strong backwash along this bank, eddying upstream.

AHEAD there showed a small promontory, heavily bushed with willows. Kang Ho edged along the bank toward this point, making a gesture which enjoined caution on his companion. Toptit watched the proceedings curiously, and just before the sampan came to the end of the promontory Kang Ho laid aside his oars. From the bow of the sampan the brawny yellow man lifted a small keg. This he placed in the water; it floated, nearly submerged. Kang Ho took a match from his pocket, struck it and held it to the top of the keg. There was a spluttering as a fuse caught. Then, with a gentle shove, Kang Ho sent the keg away and took up his oars. A moment later the sampan was shooting out beyond the promontory.

There broke into view, just around the bend of the willows, a small junk moored out from the bank― a junk with half-furled matting sail, eyes and devil-chasers on the bow and a coolie lazily fishing in the stem. The latter sent up a shrill yell at sight of the sampan, and the junk instantly erupted yellow figures.

Kang Ho laid on his oars, thirty feet distant, and surveyed the junk of Ngig Po Tui with an insolent grin.

Toptit was uneasy, for weapons were much in evidence. Besides. Toptit had one eye on that floating keg which was slowly drifting down past the sampan. He was gripping the edge of the boat nervously, and praying that Kang Ho had made some trials with that fuse before cutting it.

"Hei, Ngig Po Tui!" The bellow of Kang Ho lifted across the water. "I have brought the foreign devil, as I promised, and with him the bronze object. He does not understand our speech."

One of those at the junk's rail made answer. The first alarm was rapidly quieting.

"That is good, Kang Ho. Come aboard."

"Well said, but ill done," responded Kang Ho, chuckling. "I do not come aboard. Meet me on the bank with the money and the foreign devil is yours. But bring only one man with you. Shoot the foreign devil as soon as you like―after the money is in my hands!"

"Very well," came" the response.

Two sampans lay alongside the small junk. Into one of them dropped a man. Presently Ngig Po Tui followed him, bearing a bundle which was evidently "silver-shoe" money. Kang Ho, in the meantime, was lustily rowing past the junk toward the bank ahead. Toptit glanced around for the" floating keg, but could perceive nothing of it.

"Now," said Kang Ho to him. "if you have a weapon, be ready! And if you are hot a fool you have not come on such an errand unarmed."

Toptit merely nodded assent. The boat slid into the shore, which was gently sloping, lined with bushes and small trees, and from its general lack of cultivation seemed to belong to some temple.

The sampan from the junk bearing Ngig Po Tui and sculled by his single follower was rapidly nearing the shore. Kang Ho stood erect, flung off his wide hat and his straw coat, and lifted one arm In a magnificent gesture.

.

"Kang Ho strikes!" he bellowed, and the roar was drowned in a blast that rocked him on his feet. Toptit, though warned, was not prepared.

The concussion of the explosion caught him as he was half rising and knocked him flat In the boat. Dazed, half-stunned, he lay against the thwart.  A pall of black powder smoke from the floating keg mine overspread the river bank.

Through this fog Toptit saw the other sampan drifting In upon them, Ngig and his companion struggling up from the bottom of the craft into which they had been flung.

Then Toptit was aware of the towering figure of Kang Ho, its arm moving swiftly. Two flashes of light sped from the hand of the giant. Knives!

NGIG PO TUI and his oarsman never knew what struck them. They collapsed together, and their sampan gradually drifted out from shore. Through the smoke pall Toptit saw the dim shape of Ngig's junk slowly settling at the bows.

This entire affair passed with lightning rapidity. The explosion was followed by an instant of dead silence. It was In this Instant that Kang Ho flung his deadly knives. With the next second the sinking junk emitted a pandemonium of yells and oaths.

"My men will be upon them In a moment!" exclaimed Kang Ho, proudly. Admiration of the man's scheme flashed upon Toptit, who was rising.

Before he could speak, something dropped about his neck and dragged at him. A wild and furious shout from Kang Ho showed that a second noose had fallen. Through the thinning smoke a horde of figures dashed from the bushes and crowded upon the boat.

They were the soldiers of the mandarin. Ngig Po Tui had arranged a clever trap for the river pirate and also for the foreign devil in order to get the whole reward himself. Toptit perceived that he would be murdered very nicely, and the blame would be laid upon river pirates― probably upon Kang He/, who would be executed for the crime.

These provincial soldiers from the mandarin's yamen were not the excellent national army men, but they  knew their business.  Toptit saw the great figure of Kang Ho totter and go down, overturning the boat, and sending the whole crowd of assailants in a pile.

As he himself went into the mud Toptit felt the knotted silk cord tighten about his throat, but he did not resist. He was already freeing himself.

Standing knee-deep in the ooze, he calmly held the muzzle of his automatic against the taut cord and fired. If you think this an easy feat under the best of circumstances, try it. Toptit's bullet cut the cord. His second and third bullets dropped two of the men above Kang Ho. The giant river pirate came erect with a bellow. At this point the yamen' soldiers opened fire. If they could not capture they could kill.

Toptit did not wait lo see what happened next. He shoved the automatic into his pocket, gently dropped into the water, and went away from there as long as breath would hold him under the surface.

When he came up bullets splashed his face. He gasped new air into his lungs and went down again. He emerged to find himself a goodly distance from shore, where the powder smoke still clung thickly, cloaking the scene.

"This is very pleasant." he reflected, turning on his back and letting himself float. "I seem to have dropped into a private war in which torpedoes, pirates-and soldier-bandits all take large shares. The only consolation is that I have the tiger hilt in my pocket. This proves that I am not dreaming. I think Kang Ho would be an excellent subject for an epic poem, or at least an ode in the epic style."

For ten minutes he swam hurriedly, then a heartfelt curse broke from him. He perceived a small, swift craft bearing down to pick him up, and from the flags at the stern saw that it was one of the patrol cutters under jurisdiction of the Cheng-tu mandarin.

"A thousand dollars reward― strictly sub rosa―for the foreign devil!" murmured Toptit, philosophically.

"That means they'll knock me on the head, take me in and collect the reward― and the newspapers will tell how a promising young American was a victim of river pirates! Damn! This is my finish, all right!"

THE American consul at Chung-king was on his way up the river to Cheng-to to investigate the beet sugar industry. There was no beet-sugar industry there, so it would make an excellent subject for a special report which would fill many pages and keep the government printing office busy for a while.

The consul sat beneath the awning of his steam launch and watched the river. Something was always happening here― that was one beauty of the Chinese river life. There was no monotony. Since leaving Hsu-chow and starting up the Min to Cheng-tu on the final two-hundred-mile lap, the consul had witnessed one murder, two free-for-all fights and several other episodes of like interest.

Now, as he lighted his midafternoon cheroot, he descried an unusual incident ahead, and ordered his engineer to slow speed. The consul was not one of your careful sort who fear to make mistakes and follow the line of least resistance. He was a pugnacious Georgian, and had made his official district one place In the world where Americans had no need to call themselves British in order to get consular protection.

He gazed with growing interest at the boat which was slowly floating down the river toward his own craft, and with a word to his helmsman steered toward her. The boat, he saw, was one of the government river patrol maintained to prevent salt smuggling  from the mines near Chung-king, and she was in some manifest confusion. Most of her crew were congregated in the bow, where they were engaged in striking at some object just underneath the curving prow and out of their reach.

The consul picked up his binoculars and focused on this object. An instant later he was ordering full speed ahead, and his boys were jumping to load the little brass gun in the bow used for salutes.

The little gun roared and the patrol boat leaped into even greater confusion upon observing the rapid approach of the launch flying the American flag. The consul called his No. 1 boy.

"There is a man in the water―a white man," he said. "Have him drawn aboard."

The officer in charge of the patrol boat leaped into the bow and waved  his arms hastily, but the consul took no heed.

Clinging: to a carved projection beneath the painted eyes of the patrol launch was a senseless man whom the consul had recognized, and the Georgian watched as his helmsman laid the two boats alongside with nice precision.

Then, seeing that his boys were attending to Toptit, the consul regarded the officer, who was dancing with rage.

"This is very fortunate," he observed suavely. "I perceive that you were about to fescue my countryman. I am the consul of America at Chung-king."

"He  is not your countryman, Excellency," responded the officer angrily. "He is a man of France―"

"You are mistaken. I know him very well," said the consul smiling.

At this the officer changed countenance.

"Very well, Excellency," he responded, bowing. "We saw him floating in the river and came to his assistance. Undoubtedly―"

"Undoubtedly that was well done," interrupted the consul, who could be just as bland as any yellow man going. "I shall report your zeal at the yamen. You will be rewarded."

"A man of your Excellency's position should not be troubled with drowned bodies," said the officer. "If you will turn over the man to us, we will bring him to Cheng-tu with all due respect and―"

"He is not drowned, and he is a friend of mine," said the consul. "The matter shall be duly reported at the yamen, so say no more. My papers are at your disposal if you care to see them."

"That is not needed; I have seen your Excellency before this."

The officer bowed and turned away with a shrug. The consul ordered full speed ahead, which the engineer made haste to obey. The launch had drifted in close to the east bank, where there were many shallows.

Toptit, whose position under the bow of the patrol boat had nearly drowned him. but had turned most of the blows aimed at him, opened his eyes to meet the consul's smile.

"Hello!" he observed, sitting up. "Say, I've had a devil of a nightmare! Where did you come from, old man

"From here to there."

The consul produced a flask.

"Sit steady now till I fix you up a snifter; you need it. What the deuce have you been doing, Toptit, to get the yamen after your hide? Those chaps would have finished you in another minute!"

Toptit felt for his pocket, patted it and then relaxed with an expression of complete bliss.

"Me? Nothing at all," he said in an aggrieved tone. "I've just been taking an excursion to see the river. Hello! If that isn't―"

A familiar voice, lifted in a bellow from the receding bank, drew Toptit hastily to his feet. He observed the figure of Kang Ho excitedly waving from the shore.

He waved response and pointed in the direction of Cheng-tu. The pirate waved in understanding and vanished.

"Great Scott!" exclaimed the consul. "What's all this wigwagging. Toptit?

Who was that chap?"

''A friend of mine.name is Kang Ho." Toptit took the drink that was proffered him, then paused before the consul's look or incredulous consternation.

"Kang Ho? Man, you're crazy! It can't be the river pirate of that name― the beggar with a reward of five thousand liang on his head."

Toptit grinned suddenly. "See here, are you talking to me in an official capacity?" he demanded.

"You bet I am! If you're tied up with that pirate, there's going to be trouble all tip and down the line, my son!"

Toptit swallowed his drink.

"Well," he said, "don't you worry about it! That isn't any pirate. That's just a big overgrown kid who got me into a hell of a mess. He'll probably be up at Cheng-tu in the morning to get a present I promised to give him. I'll introduce you."

"I think." observed the consul, regarding him gravely, "that you're lying, Toptit!"

Toptit chuckled. "Of course I am. Everybody lies to a consul. Of course, if you weren't in an official capacity―"

"Oh I understand." The consul dropped into a chair and produced cigars. "Here, my boy is getting out some dry clothes now. Tell me while―"

Toptit told his story. He told the exact truth and produced the bronze tiger hilt to prove his words.

And yet To this very day the consul affirms that Toptit is the most polished liar he ever met.

____________________

5: Red Amber

The Sunday Star, Washington, D C,  1 Jan 1922

ONLY a few miles out of the ancient imperial city of  Cheng-tu, Hanecy passed his rival and very good enemy, Benson.

Hanecy chuckled as his yellow bearers swept along with his chair,  and he recognised Henson in the chair ahead. Benson's carriers were not hurrying particularly.

"He's been bullying the boys, has he?" thought Hanecy. "Then I'll beat  him to it easily." As the two chairs came along side. Hanecy leaned forward and spoke. "Hello, Mr. Benson! Going up to the Lao-tzu Temple. are you? Pleasant trip."

Benson, who was always deadly  smooth and who never lost his head, looked at Hanecy with a viperish intensity.

"The same to you," he retorted  calmly, yet the words held a deep fierceness.

Hanecy only grinned and waved his hand as his chair went into the lead. He knew that Benson would not dare shoot him in the back― before witnesses.

At the edge of the mountains which girdle the historic plain of Cheng-tu no three sides lay the Lao-tzu-miao, a temple dedicated to Lao-tzu, founder of Taoism. Somewhere in the vicinity of this temple lived a man named Tung Ho, who had in his possession some red amber taken from the tomb of the Emperor Ling Ti of the eastern Han dynasty. Hanecy knew little about it all. except from verbal information. Whether the amber was carved or whether Tung Ho would sell it he did not know.

Learning that Benson was setting forth rather secretly, Hanecy had engaged bearers and started. It was enough that Benson was going, for anything Benson went after in person was bound to be unusual.

SO scarce are the things of ancient days now become in China, so keen is the rivalry among dealers and agents, that choice things are noted down from afar and native collectors and their collections are listed and known intimately.

Hanecy had the Impression that this Tung Ho was no collector, but some hillman who would not know the value of the red amber. He knew, too, that he might be walking into some trap set by Benson― the enmity between the two men would cease only with death, but this possibility did not worry Hanecy. It was enough for him that Benson was also on the trail.

It was the end of the afternoon when Hanecy came to the temple. This was not one of the splendid and wealthy Buddhist shrines which abound through the mountains, but a Taoist edifice built during the Syng periods It was, of course, walled and nearby had grown up a village of respectable proportions.

Hanecy observed that a temple fair was in progress― a fete or celebration to which all the mountain folk bad gathered, bringing goods for barter or sale. There were many peddlers also in and about the village.

Hanecy went direct to the temple. He had no baggage. Pistol, pipe and tobacco and a large amount of money were enough to carry him anywhere.

Paying oft his bearers and bidding them wait In the village until the morrow, he entered the temple. He found himself greeted with the usual courtesy, and one of the many guest looms was assigned him.

His first Inquiry was for Tung Ho. The priests Informed him that Tung Ho lived alone with a brother, Tung  Fei, three miles distant in the hills. It was now too late to go there and return before dark, hence no guides could be obtained, for fear of tigers. The mountain folk stick close to home after nightfall. Hanecy perceived also from the manner of his informants that he would be unwise to try the trip alone. He concluded rightly that the two brothers did not have the best of reputations, and reluctantly decided to trait until morning.

"Since I've beaten Benson to it, I might as well have the pickings of the fair." he reflected.

Hastily cleaning up, he sauntered forth. To his gratification, he was able to pick up a number of small objects― nothing of any great importance, and he then turned his attention to a small canvas booth outside the temple wall, where some sort of mountebank was holding forth. Hanecy was attracted to it by the giggles and squeals of delight from the crowd around the booth. He found the entertainment nothing wonderful. A peddler, evidently a wandering Korean, sat and begged for money.

His display consisted of a thin glass case, closed with wire at the ends, In which were a number of small birds. The man wheezed at a mouth-organ, talking between whiles.

"All the years of my life I have spent training these birds," whined the dirty Korean. "Now, see, when I play they will dance."

Sure enough, when the music began, the birds began to flutter and hop. since the thin glass cage was not high enough to let them fly. The crowd shrieked in ecstasy.

Hanecy's eyes grew a bit more steely. He noted the mouth-organ and saw that It was of Japanese make. He had little doubt that the Korean was one of the many peddlers who were distributing morphia throughout the country under Japanese auspices. Being red-headed, he was impulsive. Being an American, he detested needless cruelty to dumb things.

He shouldered his way to the forefront of the crowd and without a word of explanation produced his automatic pistol and with it smashed the thin glass of the case. The tortured birds fluttered forth and took wing.

WITH a startled oath, the Korean leaped up, a knife flashing Into his hand. Hanecy took him by the neck and dragged him forward across the booth.

"Listen, spawn of a turtle!" The American's voice bit like steel. A murmur of amazement went up from the crowd as they heard the foreign devil speaking their dialect. "If you make the wrong move with that knife, you die! Drop it! I say drop it!"

The knife fell. Hanecy kicked aside the front of the booth. He exposed a burning candle, operated by a foot-tread, which at the will of the showman could move the candle close to the tin floor of the case or move it away.

"Begone, child of a blind fish!" said Hanecy scornfully.

The peddler vanished; pursued by hoots and jeers and not a few stones. The Chinese do not like Koreans, anyway.

It was nearly dark when Benson arrived. Hanecy saw nothing of him, but heard his voice as he was being shown into quarters.

After an excellent repast left the temple precincts for a walk and a smoke. He did not fancy the looks of his hosts. They were a debauched and sensual lot, and but few of them had the skull scars of genuine priests, the scars left by the three burning pastilles at initiation.

Returning to the outer gateway, Hanecy paused to clean his pipe and glance at the temple grounds, sprinkled with lanterns. The night was dark and close, with storm threatening. Despite the utter peace of the mountain night, the stillness of the scene, Hanecy was by no means off guard. When presently he observed a silent figure slipping to him along the wall, his hand slid abruptly under his left arm. Instant response to the gesture came in a low voice speaking fluent mandarin:

"Heavenborn, be careful with that weapon! I have come to speak with you."

"Hello! The Korean again!" thought Hanecy, and kept his hand on his pistol. "You accursed devil, what do you want with me? Trying to stab me in the darkness?"

"Not at all, Excellency!" murmured the Korean in an aggrieved tone. "That was a very clever trick you played upon me this afternoon, but I bear no malice."

Hanecy half expected a knife to leap forth as the man came close, but none came.

"Listen, heavenborn!" pursued the Korean eagerly. "You are a brave man and clever, and I hear you no ill-will, as I say. Now, I have learned why you are here and why the other foreign devil, who Is also a merchant, is here. Indeed, he was inquiring for some one to take him tonight to the house of Tung Ho and Tung Fei, and I said nothing about knowing the way thither."

Hanecy said nothing, either, for he was somewhat astonished at all this. In the tone of the Korean was a respectful admiration, combined with a cunning twist of words.

"Now, Excellency," continued the man, "I know those brethren well; indeed, I came past their place only yesterday. It is true that they are bandits and men of no reputation. No one among these Chinese would willingly go to their place after dark, but I am no son of Han, heavenborn."

"What do you  want with me?" snapped Hanecy somewhat testily.

The Korean cackled in crafty mirth.

"What but money? The other foreign devil offered ten silver liang to anyone who would take him to the house of Tung Ho this night. Therefore, I said to myself, he and the other foreign devil are running a race. They are merchants. Tung Ho has something that they wish to buy, and each one wishes to get there ahead of the other. Is this so, heavenborn―"

"If it is," said Hanecy, "what business is it of yours?"

"My business is to make money, and the Korean laughed again. "If one foreign devil offers ten silver liang, how much will the other offer? Now, heavenborn, I can still go to the other man and tell him I will take him."

"What about the tigers?" asked Hanecy.

"Bah! I am no mountain fool! I have two mules, and if you wish to go with me we can get to the place and be back before midnight; that is, if you offer me enough money to take you."

Hanecy bit on his empty pipe stem and reflected.

HE DID not like the Korean in the least and did not trust him. None the less, there would be no trap set at night, and he scorned the thought of the peddler trying to kill him. The fellow's story rang true enough. Here was the chance to beat Benson hands down. Benson could not possibly leave the temple before daylight.

"The moon will rise in an hour," put in the Korean craftily.

Hanecy nodded. After all, this looked like a providential chance to get ahead of Benson. It mattered not that the Tung brethren were bandits. That was to be expected.

"Very well," said Hanecy with decision. "You are sure that you know the way?"

The Korean laughed scornfully. "Know it, heavenborn! I know every inch of these hills. Besides, the road is excellent and deeply worn."

"In that case," said Hanecy, "I will offer you 25 liang; not in silver, for I have none, but in notes of the Cheng-tu government. You know that they are good."

"None better, heavenborn. The price is sufficient,"

"How soon can you start?"

"My mules are just outside the village. There is no danger to them from a tiger, for I have charms about their necks which keep off all animals, Excellency. If you will come outside town with me. we can start this moment; that is, of course, after the payment has been made."

Hanecy wondered if the fellow meant to take his money and then desert him. Or, simpler still, to make a. brazen effort at robbery. Or whether the mules were but a bait for some trap. Anything was possible. Why not?

Benson was thick as thieves with the local mandarin at Cheng-tu, and his influence reached out to all kinds of grafters, smugglers and bad characters generally. Still, what of it? Benson was used to running chances. The odds were even that this Korean would take him to the house of the Tung brethren. If he got that far in safety, he might be assured that all was well.  The risk lay close to hand, and Hanecy decided to take it. He lighted a match to assist him in counting the notes.

"I'm warned." he thought grimly as he reached for his money, "and if there's something phoney going on, let the other fellow look out. If they can take my hide while my eyes are open, let 'em go to it!"

He counted out 25 liang, which put in the hand of the Korean.

"Come." he said briefly. "I'm all ready. Are these temple gates ever closed?"

"Not at this season or the year, heavenborn. You can return any time tonight."

The Korean obeyed Hanecy's peremptory gesture and led the way from the temple into the thick darkness.

The American followed him closely, sliding his pistol out into his hand in readiness. However, rather to his surprise, nothing happened.

A little way out of the village the Korean slipped into a copse of dense bushes. Here if anywhere, thought Hanecy, would come the trap― but there was no trap. The peddler, perhaps sensing the feeling of his companion, lighted a match. Two mules, with a large pack and the remnants of the canvas booth tor the dancing birds were revealed. The peddler saddled the mules, wrapped a straw coat about himself to guard against the cold, and Hanecy followed him into the saddle.

A moment later they were out upon the road.  It was a good enough road, as roads went in these parts. It was not like the roads of Shensi, worn down 50 to 100 feet between narrow walls, but it was worn down sufficiently by countless centuries of travel to give Hanecy the sensation of riding in a extremely narrow gulch up the valley.

And still he found that nothing happened. Nona the less, he held himself under a constant vigilance, ready at each twist in the road for some treacherous surprise. The Korean rode in silence― a good sign. If the man had been a babbler, Hanecy would have been certain of treachery. As It was, he remained fully on guard.

FOR three miles they followed a road which would have been impassable for horses. It was steep and extremely rough and rocky. Indeed Hanecy would much have preferred to negotiate it on foot, except that the mules were perfectly sure of themselves, despite the darkness.

The road was circuitous, and Hanecy reflected that the distance was farther than he had counted upon. The three miles took them nearly an hour.

Here they came to a fork in the trail. The Korean halted his mules and pointed to that which led to the right.

"This is the road, heavenborn. As you can see, it is little used. It goes only to the house of the Tung brethren, who live on temple ground and farm it. The moon is already up and in five minutes we will be in an open valley."

Hanecy nodded and motioned the peddler to go on.

They turned into the right-hand trail. As the Korean said, five minutes took them out of the gorge-like, worn road into a path that wound up a small, rocky valley.

The moon was up, and Hanecy began to feel more convinced that his guide might be trusted. It seemed silly to be carrying a pistol in his hand, here in the moonlight, and with a grim smile he replaced the weapon beneath his armpit.

They came to an ancient entrance of which little remained but carved with clouds and dragons, doubtless the symbols of temple property. Here the Korean paused.

"Yonder is the house, heavenborn. Let us leave the mules here. Let me do the talking at first, for they will know my voice."

Hanecy looked at the building, which stood out stark in the moonlight, all trees cleared from around it. It was a low house of stone, and the house was darker than the night outside. Some one was at home, however. The twanging of a lute came faintly as they listened.

Hanecy's last remnant of suspicion fled.

The two men crossed the open space of moonlight ground afoot. As they did so the sound of the plunking lute ceased very suddenly.

The building was little more than a rude shack of stone, built in older days. Hanecy perceived that the door was very large and heavy, massively built. The Korean knocked upon it loudly.

"Who is there?" demanded a voice from within, speaking a rude dialect hardly intelligible to Hanecy.

"It is I, Yao-men, the peddler!" responded the Korean. "With me there is a foreign devil, a strange white man, a merchant. He was at the Lao-tzu temple, and he paid me to guide him here. He has come to buy something."

"Teng-iteng," growled a second voice. "Wait a little, son of Korean devils, until we see if it be you indeed and not some mountain spirit come to mock us."

To one side of the door a shutter grated. Hanecy could well imagine the fear and suspicion filling the eyes of the brethren as they looked out, for Chinese legend is full of mountain and river fairies who come by moonlight, and Taoists are superstitious above all others. The Chinese have imagined more gruesome forms of vampires than any scenario writer ever dared to pen.

"It is the peddler, brother," grunted the first voice, "and a foreign devil
with him."

"Perhaps they are spirits of drowned men come to take our bodies," said the second.

"Nay, there is no water around here, fool! Ho, peddler! Walk In a circle!"

Chuckling, the Korean made a circle in the moonlight, and Hanecy followed suit, thus apprising the brethren that they were human and not devils, for devils can move only in a straight line. Hanecy, smiling, addressed the invisible brethren.

"Fear not, my friends! I have come here to see a certain piece of red amber which I heard that you owned. I may wish to buy it, and I may not."

"We do not wish to sell it!" growled one of the voices. "It is only a lump of amber, and it is not carven. The priests will pay more for it than will foreign devils."

"At all events," said Hanecy, "suppose that we talk it over."

THERE was a low mutter of voices as the two brethren doubtless conferred. Then one of the brethren came to the door and began to unfasten bolts and locks.

The Korean turned to Hanecy and gestured toward the gate.

"Heavenborn, I will remain with the mules until you return."

Hanecy nodded, and the Korean departed, his thin straw sandals flapping on the ground.

The massive door swung open.

Inside appeared the figure of a tall, muscular yellow man holding aloft a temple candle with a huge wick and a soft, red-painted body. It was one of those candles whose cotton wick burns red for twenty minutes after it is extinguished.

"Come in," said the Chinese.

Hanecy's caution had prompted him to leave his coat open, the better to reach his pistol. He saw no reason for suspicion here, yet some intuition warned him not to enter. Reason laughed at the warning.

He took a step across the threshold.

The Chinaman quickly pulled the door to and swung a bolt. Then―

The candle was extinguished and fell to the floor. Out of the darkness leaped a thin blade of cold steel. It slithered through the coat of Hanecy and quivered In the door behind. Only the American's swift side-step had saved him from that deadly thrust. Pinned to the door by that slender blade, Hanecy felt hands reaching at his throat. For the moment he had been taken off guard. He was unable to get at his pistol. However,  he flung his knee sharply upward, felt it thud into a body, and his assailant was gone.

"Trapped!" he thought. "The whole thing was a plant. Benson sent that damned Korean to lure me here― had It all framed up―"

While he thought, he was whipping out his pistol. He fired at random, merely for information. The flash showed him two Chinamen to right and left, coming forward at him with bared steel.

Hanecy fired a second time. One of the two men went down with a crash and a groan. The other man flung himself on Hanecy in time to deflect the third bullet.

Gripping the American's wrist so that the automatic roared up at the roof, he stabbed. Hanecy jerked himself free of the knife that held him to the door, wrenched himself about so that the lunging arm passed over his shoulder, and his left hand shot up. His fist smashed into the assassin's face and jolted the man backward. At this instant from the floor at his feet Hanecy heard a rattling cough, and about his ankles fastened the hands of the first man whom he had shot. That grip was totally unexpected and came near being ruinous. Hanecy went down heavily. His right hand, dashed violently against the door behind him, lost the automatic pistol.

Realizing In a flash that he was in desperate straits, Hanecy kicked out as he lay there. He freed his ankles from that terrible dying grip, rolled over, and came to his feet in the pitch darkness.

"Where is he?" panted the voice of the living man. It was answered from the floor by a rattling, choking cough.

Hanecy, cursing the luck which had cost him the pistol, stooped and fumbled for it. With the sound, there was a rush of feet as the remaining bandit leaped. Hanecy staggered beneath the impact. The yellow man crashed into him sidewise. By sheer good fortune his fingers clutched on the knife arm reaching for his throat, and now for a moment the two men stood breast to breast, swaying.

The finish came swiftly. Hanecy waited only to catch his breath, then worked his right arm against the other's breast. With a swinging heave of the body, he back-heeled the assassin, breaking loose his hold and sending him hurtling backward with an oath and a smashing fall. Leaping to the door, Hanecy groped along the floor for his pistol― and found it.  He straightened up, waiting. Only silence ensued. He stood motionless. The dying bandit at his feet coughed and coughed again. No other sound broke the dread stillness of the room.

At length, with ready weapon. Hanecy took a match from his pocket and struck it. As the tiny flame arose he saw the second assassin lying against the farther wall in a huddled heap. The man had fallen upon his own knife and was dead.

The American leaned over and picked up the dropped candle. The wick was still a red cinder, smoking blackly, and burst into flame from his match. He held up the candle and looked down at the coughing man. As he looked the cough ceased and the body relaxed.

"Poor devils!" said Hanecy. "Benson was behind it somewhere. That damned peddler helped, and probably the priests had a hand in it. And these two ignorant lumps of clay pay the penalty for all that crooked work. But if Benson was behind it, then what about the lump of red amber?"

HE WAS shaken by the ghastly swiftness of the tragedy, but he was more perplexed and puzzled by the possibility that Benson had planned his murder thus. He held aloft the candle and surveyed the room. On a small table in one corner he saw a huge lump of some blood-red substance, glistening with a transparent lustre In the candle-glow. The American stared at the thing and his jaw dropped.

"By glory!" he muttered. "They had the blood amber all right, but why hasn't Benson got hold of it before this? He knew It was here, and if he planned this affair he would surely have taken

A scratching noise at the door aroused him. It was followed by the voice of the Korean, speaking the dialect,

"Hei, brothers! Open to me quickly. I can tell you where the foreign devil keeps his money. I can―"

Hanecy looked at the dead men on the floor with a trace of pity in his eyes. After all, they were but tools― poor ignorant tools of more crafty men. The pity in his eyes turned to steel as he strode to the door and opened it. A single shot volleyed echoes through the mountain glens.

TOPTIT, WHO was Hanecy's partner and a young man of poetical tendencies. was very comfortably ensconced in the Tu-kung temple, just outside the south gate of Cheng-tu. It quite suited him, for the temple was a memorial of Master Tu, a poet of the eighth century, and naturally the monks In charge were partial to poets.

Toptit was finishing up a translation of the famous Oak-tree Poem of Tu, which hung in the main hall of the temple, when Jim Hanecy came back from his trip to the hills. Hanecy walked in, bearing under his arm a large bundle. He was weary and unshaven, but greeted Toptit with his usual cheerful grin.

"Hello!" said Toptit, springing up. "Did you get the amber?"

"I usually get things, don't I?"

Hanecy dropped thankfully into a chair and put the bundle In his lap.

"For heaven's sake, give me some tobacco! I ran out. And rustle me up some grub, will you?"

Toptit summoned a boy and ordered refreshments. Meantime, Hanecy was getting his pipe into action with much enjoyment.

"Did you catch up with Benson?" queried the poet excitedly.

Hanecy's eyes twinkled.

"I did," he responded, "but I had a devil of a time doing it, I can tell you! And I didn't catch up with him, after all― that is, I haven't caught up with him yet. I can't make out one or two things. Why, In heaven's name, for instance, he left this thing for me when he might have secured it himself."

Ignoring, the bundle, Hanecy proceeded to give his partner a brief account of what had happened in the hills. He spared some of the details, for Toptit was possessed of a highly imaginative sense of justice, and would scarcely have approved a good many things which Jim Hanecy did.

"Now, If Benson was behind it," he concluded, "why didn't he secure this thing for himself? He didn't need to leave it as a bait for me."

Toptit regarded him meditatively.

"I have a slight hunch in the matter," he responded at length. "I'll  bet you one whole dollar that your friend Benson never went farther than the temple, never went up into the hills at all, and never intended to! I'll bet that he simply drew you into going― drew you into leaving town, in a hurry, too!"

Hanecy stared at his partner, and perplexedly ruffled up his red hair.

"Eh? I don't get you, old man. What's the answer?"

"Let's see the loot."

Hanecy unwrapped many cloths from about the bundle in his lap. He disclosed the red, red lump of translucent brightness which he had carried from the house of Tung Ho― a lump nearly as large as his head, of irregular shape, and in hue the magnificent scarlet of true-blood amber.

TOPTIT took the lump into his own hands and scrutinized it. He drew forth his pocket knife and scraped at the surface. Then he gave Hanecy a rather non-committal smile.

"You've tested this?"

"Tested it? I've had no chance, you ass! Besides, there's no doubt it's the piece we are after. Look on the outer side and you'll see the characters for Ling Ti carved into the amber. That's the bit from the old emperor's grave, all right."

Toptit chuckled.

"Say, Hanecy, you're the one man who never falls for the faked stuff, aren't you? You're the one guy who never buys fake Chou bronzes and all that, eh? Well, my guess about Mr. Benson was dead right. He left this thing there for you because he didn't want it himself! That explains the whole matter."

"What does?" growled Hanecy.

Toptit chuckled again.

"This!" Toptit tapped the red lump with his knife blade. "Whoever got it with the other stuff from the grave of Ling Ti probably thought it was genuine. To make it more genuine, he had the two ideographs cut in the surface, savvy? This isn't amber at all. It's red glass, probably melted in some fire and buried a few hundred years―"

With a subdued oath, Hanecy leaned forward and seized the red lump.

This was the first time he had dared examine it in daylight, the first time he had been able to do so in security from other eyes. Now he saw that Toptit had spoken truth. This was not amber at all, as the feel and the edges of the lump testified. It was nothing but glass.

Hanecy rose and went to the doorway. He stood there for a moment, then tossed the red lump out into the temple garden.

"And to think." he said slowly, "that I had a devil of a trip for a bit of red glass!"

"I was thinking," returned Toptit reflectively, "that this bit of red glass had taken a large toll of human life."

The whole point of view of each man was expressed in those two remarks.

_____________________

6: The Ambassador's Ring

The Sunday Star, Washington, D C,  8 Jan 1922

OUTSIDE Cheng-tu, In an almost royal villa, lived old Wu Liang. When Jim Hanecy learned that the ambassador's ring was in the hands of Wu Liang he ordered up a chair and went out to visit the old gentleman. Wu had the right to sign himself "M. A.. Oxon," which means a good deal In China.

Somewhat to his mortification, Jim found that he was in a little over his depth. He was not strong on the classical stuff. Still, he was ashamed to admit that any Chinese could know more about Greece and Rome than he did, so he shut up and listened hard. Besides, he owed this deference to his host. Wu Liang, past seventy and very frail, was one of the greatest scholars and philologists In all China.

Any dealer in the business would have written him a check for a million gold, for his private collection of historic and authentic antiques. Being straightforward― almost too much so for his own good― Jim Hanecy came direct with an offer to buy the ring.

At this the old scholar only smiled gently and served tea. He gradually launched Into a dissertation which even Hanecy, who knew a good deal, found very instructive.

"I suppose you know whence came the ring?" inquired Wu Liang.

Hanecy assented. He was one dealer who did not lie, even to buy things cheaply.

"It was recently taken from the grave of the Emperor Ling Ti," he said. "I understand that it came to you."

"True. Now, my friend, we shall speak frankly, for I know your reputation. It is one to be envied by other white men in our country. First, allow me humbly to show you the ring."

An attendant brought In a box lined with silk. From this box Wu Liang took another box. Four boxes in all there were, and In the innermost lay the ambassador's ring.

Wu Liang handed it to the American.

"You want this," he said, "because of its historic interest. I want it because of its ethnologic interest, which is far greater. Examine it, and you will see."

Hanecy was already going over the ring with a magnifying glass. It was a mounting of rather heavy, soft gold, recently cleansed. The stone, of green jasper, bore the intaglio carving of a lizard. Certainly no Chinese workmanship here! Then, examining the inside of the circlet where letters appeared, Hanecy uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"THERE is some mistake, Wu Liang!" he ejaculated, looking up. "This ring cannot have come from Ling Ti's tomb! These marks―"

"Are letters of the Roman alphabet yes." The old scholar smiled.

"They are C. Pet. For., which I take to signify Caius Petronius Fortunatus. The lizard is a favourite Roman symbol of Minerva, representing the Logos, or divine wisdom. Let me outline my humble theory in regard to this ring. I beg that you will correct my unworthy remarks from your own superior knowledge."

Jim Hanecy, as aforesaid, held his peace and listened.

"We know," said old Wu, blinking through his spectacles, "that an ambassador from the Emperor Antoninus Plus came to Ling Ti of our eastern Han dynasty, about the year 166 of your calendar. This ring came from the grave of Ling TI. So much, my friend, we know; upon this, we may predicate some Interesting facts, hitherto unproven. The name of this Roman ambassador was Caius Petronius Fortunatus, and this ring was probably a personal gift to our emperor. Now it clears up a greatly vexed point in the ethnologic history of our races. You will of course, recall that In China the transition from bronze weapons to iron was made suddenly and inexplicably about the time Ling Ti reigned."

Hanecy. who recalled nothing of the sort, assented mechanically. Later on he looked up the matter and found that Wu Liang was right.

Old Wu pursued his topic with a complacency which nothing could have interrupted.

"We know from the work of Chung Chang-tung that armour with iron plates or laminae appeared in use about the year 200 A. D. He uses the term fie cha; and as cha was formerly applied to bamboo writing tablets, we learn that the iron plates were of this same shape. Always this sudden ascendancy of iron has been a mystery― it Is now a mystery no longer! It was this Roman embassy which introduced the Roman style of plate mail; also their two-edged sword, and the use of iron. You understand? This ring in your hand completes an ethnologic circle, accounts for deeply puzzling points in our racial history. Could I think of selling it My friend, this is the most remarkable piece in my humble collection― it is one of the ethnologic wonders of the world, ranking with the Rosetta Stone or the Nestorian tablet of Si-an. Why, the British Museum would give me ten thousand pounds for it― if I wished to sell!"

"Correct," said Hanecy, not without a sigh as his hopes went glimmering. He returned the ring― the little circlet which in the world of science had more intrinsic value than chests of gold and jewels.

But Wu pursued his subject with a zealot's fervour.

"Further, the crossbow appeared in China about the same time, and in the Yen Fan-lu, again, we are told that the ox hide armour was useless against this new weapon. The inferences are plain, my friend― the Roman Influence! None the less, I thank the ring for bringing you as a guest under my humble and Insignificant roof."

"I'm not the only one after it," said Hanecy, gloomily. "There's Benson, also."

"I have heard of Mr. Benson. He, too, is an American― a famous dealer."

The smile of old Wu was cherubic, but his eyes were not. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"He is not," said Hanecy, with curt emphasis.

A LITTLE later, Jim Hanecy left the villa, afoot. He preferred walking, especially when a stormy mood was on him. He was not particularly worried about any loss of dignity In native eyes.

"Ethnology be hanged!" ho observed fiercely as he strode toward tho city. "I hate like the devil to be beaten.

There must be some decent way of getting that ring from old Wu. Benson, now, would probably wring his neck and take it― if he dared. What could I offer him for it? Not money, certainly."

It was fortunate for the existing state of surface peace that at this moment Jim Hanecy descried his rival. Benson was approaching In an open chair, and Hanecy concluded rightly that Benson was going to call on Wu Liang.

Benson ordered his bearers to halt and smiled at Hanecy. He was a soft-spoken man, this― a crafty, calculating dealer, who made few mistakes and never lost his head. He was hand in glove with all the vicious and crooked elements who might bring grist to his mill. Hanecy glared at him and would have passed by, but Benson's voice halted him.

"Hello, Hanecy! Been out to see old Wu, have you? Did you get the ring?"

"You seem to know a lot about it," snapped Hanecy, his eyes steely and cold.

"I do," Benson chuckled. "I'm on my way to get it now. I have an order for it― ten thousand yen on delivery."

Hanecy's eyes narrowed, and he smiled angelically. Any one who knew him well would have left hurriedly about then. Benson did not know him very well personally.

"So?" drawled Jim. "One of your Jap millionaire clients, eh! I heard that you got your start when you sent the jade book of Shunchih to a Jap collector."

Benson reddened under this savage thrust. That Jade book is, among those who know, a fearfully delicate subject.

When he responded there was a vicious snap to his voice. "Hanecy. I'll not only get the ring, I'll get you! If―"

"So you've come out In the open at last, eh?" interrupted Hanecy joyfully.

He took three steps forward. Benson, who was a small man, knew
better than to reach for a weapon. Hanecy lifted him out of the chair and kicked him― hard.

"You cur! I only wish you d give roe an excuse to put a bullet into you ."

Benson, who never lost his head, rose In silence and patted the dust from his clothes. Hanecy turned in disgust and strode toward the city.

Benson looked after him, and one hand slipped toward a pocket― to pause half way there, checked by an inner warning. Men had tried before this to shoot Jim Hanecy in the back.

Hanecy did not look around. Benson climbed Into his chair and ordered the bearers on.

That night Hanecy learned of the murder of Wu Liang.

JIM HANECY was stopping at the J house of his friend Kiang, the fur merchant, and had full details of the murder from the number one boy. Some time during the early evening old Wu Liang had been hit on the head and killed― brutally. Many of his choicest treasures were missing. No one knew who had committed the crime. There was no clue of any sort.

Hanecy sent oft a note to Wu s secretary, and speedily learned that the ambassador's ring was among the missing objects. Of course, Hanecy had no doubt that Benson Instigated the murder, but this was only the starting point of his troubles.

Unless he were to give up the ring as lost, he found himself facing a very stiff proposition. And Jim Hanecy prided himself on finishing whatever he started.

Under the new regime, each province of China is governed jointly by a civil magistrate and a military governor. In theory. In fact, the military mandarin maintains the army, does the work, and is quite Independent of the feeble central government. The mandarin at Cheng-tu was net only very friendly with Benson, but he was open to every graft known. He had even Invented a few new kinds of graft― quite a feat in China. Further, he was a famous collector of antiques on his own account, as are many high officials.

"The civil magistrate here keeps out of sight― no help from him," reflected Hanecy. "Benson Is living at the mandarin's yamen. If I know what's  good for me, I'd better stay away from there. Toptit's Just left town, confound him! May not be back for a week. If I could prove this murder on Benson, I'd gladly shoot the dog. but how the devil can I prove It? I'm no Sherlock Holmes. And I guess old Sherlock himself would take a shot In the arm and go to sleep over any such Job as this."

Toptit, Hanecy's partner, had just left the city in pursuit of another relic of antiquity, and Hanecy considered that he was facing pretty big odds. But he had no intention of letting that ring go to Benson and a Japanese collector.

Next morning he Interviewed his host, old Kiang. the merchant of furs, who knew all about the murder. He Told Kiang frankly of his own interest In the case, described the ring, and asked for help.

At first Kiang was not very responsive. "I am a lonely old man and know nothing."

"But you have tong brethren, and the guilds are strong in Cheng-tu."

"Also, I am sad. Wu owed me an account of eight hundred liang for fur. He has no heir, the state takes  his property, and my bill will be unpaid."

Hanecy swore to himself at this news. All Wu's magnificent collection would go to the local mandarin. and Benson would get a fat slice of it!

"Your bill will be paid," said Hanecy, swallowing his wrath. "I will pay it. I will also pay to your tong one thousand dollars, gold of Shanghai, for proof of the murderer's identity. I will pay five thousand for the recovery of the ring, or one thousand for information leading to its recovery by me."

At these agreeable words, the fur merchant warmed up amazingly.

"That is something like!" he said approvingly. "The yamen offers a reward of fifty taels. Fifty taels for the murderer of the first scholar in China." Kiang spit disgustedly.

It is better to be a coolie and raise girl children to sell down the river than to be a scholar in this degenerate age.

"Further." said Hanecy. who, deep inside of him, was bitterly angered by the brutal murder of Wu Kiang, "the dead man was my friend, and his murder was due to the poor government here. Therefore. I will subscribe five thousand. silver, to your guild on the day the mandarin is removed from office and another Changchun installed in his place.

WANG blinked delightedly.

"I will report all this to my tong brethren." he said, and Hanecy knew that he had managed to start something.

These things were before the day of the Future Welfare Society and kindred organizations. Japanese influence was terribly strong at Peking, and was just starting the morphia traffic. The old statesmen of the empire were still ruling the new republic. Graft and corruption were rampant. The one strong power in all China was that of the tongs― the huikuan― or clubs, and the kung-so, or trade guilds. This power once exerted, was far-reaching and potent.

Hanecy began to have some hope. not much, but some.

AT THREE o'clock that afternoon his hopes went glimmering― went with a crash. Hanecy was in an unsuspicious mood. His glow of virtuous wrath against Benson had for the moment dissipated his natural caution.

At three o'clock he was on his way across town, afoot, as was his custom, to the temple where his partner lodged. He was hoping to find that Toptit returned to the city.  In the Street of Ten Thousand Excellent Virtues, a foul and narrow lane that led toward the river, Hanecy was abruptly aroused to danger. At the street corner ahead appeared a file of provincial soldiery from the mandarin's yamen. A cry of "devil!" from behind drew his attention to other soldiers crowding in from the rear. Trapped! Jim Hanecy paused to ask no questions. Time enough for explanations later! That one glance showed him there was no avenue of escape. Characteristically, he made one for himself Putting his shoulder to the nearest door, he burst It open and vanished Into the darkness.

Out in the Street of Ten Thousand Excellent Virtues arose wild turmoil, confusion of running soldiers, screaming town folk.

A pious Mohammedan who was on his way to the mosque was stabbed by somebody. A religious riot followed promptly, and prominent In the affair were two minor members of the kung-so, or guild, of fur merchants. Presently the tumult quieted. The soldiers were not certain where Hanecy had vanished, so began a house-to-house search. Meantime, the officer in charge of the party proclaimed that the foreign devil had murdered the scholar, Wu Liang, according to evidence presented at the yamen.

The search was made thorough, but the foreign devil was not found.

A WEALTHY Chinese dwelling, facing south for luck, roughly consists of four buildings around a courtyard. Benson, who was installed as a guest in the dwelling of the local mandarin, occupied one of the hou-fang, or back rooms. In this instance the rear wall of the dwelling backed up against the grounds  of a small temple, giving a very pleasant outlook by day. Now it was evening, however. Benson had closed the paper shutters and lighted candles and had brought forth a flask of Scotch whisky with which to regale the mandarin in strict privacy.

The two men sat in the room, the Chang-chun sipping his liquor appreciatively, and discussed the situation.

"There's no doubt that Hanecy murdered old Wu." said Benson firmly. "I hate to think it. even though we were not friends, but the evidence is clear."

The sleek, fat features of the Mandarin smiled in oily complacency.

"Clear, indeed!" he murmured. He held up a pudgy hand and, checked off on his fingers.

"Two Manchu bannermen of the red banner, going home to their quarter outside the west gate, saw Mr. Hanecy come from the direction of Wu's villa in the evening. He carried a small bundle. Three countrymen, hastening to reach the city before the gates closed for the night, saw Mr. Hanecy leaving the villa stealthily― saw Wu's secretary letting him out the side gate. He carried a bundle; also a short and heavy club, which he flung away."

"Has the club been found?" queried Benson frowningly.

"Not yet, I regret to say," was the soft response.

"The secretary was examined this afternoon and denied his guilt until he was brought to know the infinite mercy of the old Buddha― then he confessed. He aided Mr. Hanecy in the murder."

"By the way," said Benson, "I'd like to ask that secretary a few questions."

"Justice is swift," smirked the Chang-chun blandly. "He was executed at sunset. The evidence Is clear and without a flaw, is it not?"

Benson assented, compressing his lips in restraint. Perhaps Benson, who was no fool, suspected that all this evidence of witnesses was remarkably complete. He must have realized that Wu's secretary had been tortured into a confession and then summarily executed with a really astonishing swiftness of justice. But he assented.

"You did not see Wu this afternoon?" inquired the mandarin.

"No." Benson flushed. "He refused to have me admitted."

A slight detail, this― even a humiliating detail! Benson never dreamed how important it was.

"If Mr. Hanecy is apprehended," went on the mandarin, sipping his whisky, "you think the evidence will warrant my sending him to Chungking for trial before his consul?"

"Of course."

"Unless duty is clear," said Benson, "I will witness the evidence. Besides, America will never bother you."

"Yes. Every one knows that our sister republic bothers no one. If Hanecy were a British subject, of course, it would be very different. Now, I have sealed the villa of the unfortunate Wu Liang, and his effects have become the property of the state. In a few days we will go over this collection, and certain objects may be sold to you."

"The ring was not found?" Inquired Benson. "Did you get a description of it?"

The mandarin smiled blandly. On his finger was a gold circlet adorned with a green jasper, in which was cut a lizard. It glowed- dully against the cup of aubergine porcelain. "The ring was described by the secretary," he answered.

'It was a ring of bronze. In which was an oval red Jade inscribed with the seal of Ling Ti. Undoubtedly it will be found on Mr. Hanecy, and I shall turn It over to you as a gift of friendship."

Benson, who had never seen the ambassador's ring― since he had not been admitted to Wu's villa― nodded his satisfaction and poured more Scotch into the cup of aubergine.

The paper screen of shutter that closed the windows behind the  mandarin's back moved very slightly, so slightly that neither man observed the movement.

"This is truly a liquor blessed by the virtues of heaven!"' said the yellow man, with a suave significance. "If there were more of It In the world― well, it would be worth much!"

"As much," queried Benson, who had craftily Introduced this usquebaugh to the taste of his host, as much as the treasure of Wu Liang's collection?"

"Truly, it would bear great Influence, my friend! Is it not written of the great roaster in the Ch'uri Ch'iu that honour is more worthy than much profit?"

"If you will pardon my absence," and Benson rose, smiling. "I will look through my boxes. Possibly I could find a bottle or two of this liquor which might be worthy your acceptance."

The mandarin acquiesced eagerly enough.

Benson left the room his boxes were stored In another of the rear chambers. Holding up against a candle that delicate shell of aubergine porcelain, the mandarin smiled.

The ring was very pretty on his finger; also, it was tremendously valuable. Far above such value, however, this suave official ranked the beautiful fashion in which he was tricking this astute white man― tricking him to his very face! How enraged Benson would have bean to know that this ring, of ordinary appearance― this ring on the finger of the mandarin, negligently waved under his very eyes― was the ambassador's ring! Meantime, Benson's greed was helping greatly to urge on the fate of Jim Hanecy, that other foolish foreign devil, whom the mandarin greatly wanted out of the way. The witnesses were well primed, the confession of Wu's secretary was well signed and in order― and the secretary was dead. The two soldiers who had stolen into the old scholar's house, who had murdered him and stolen many of his precious objects, were dead also. The mandarin had seen to that, very promptly, on delivery of the goods.

So, sipping at the whisky, the mandarin smiled and blinked in complacent satisfaction. Behind him, the paper screen moved, noiselessly, and was pushed aside. Two saffron figures, nearly naked, dropped into the room. Before the astonished mandarin could turn, one iron hand clamped about his throat, another clamped on his two flabby wrists. He was held prostrate, silent, agonized.

One of the two saffron figures held up against the nearest candle a thin sliver of steel, the shape and size of a hatpin; then he leaned forward over the helpless official. A voice murmured softly:

"It is written that a magistrate without honour is more vile than the turtle. The spirit of Wu Liang awaits you In the hall of judgment, base one!"

The saffron figure came erect and shoved back into his black, twisted hair the thin skewer of steel. His mate loosened the dead man. The mandarin lay huddled, without spot of blood, without visible token of death except the fright In his fat face. The exact manner of his death had been sudden, sharp, invisible; very interesting from a scientific viewpoint, but hardly suitable to detailed description. One saffron figure dropped something into the flask of whisky, refilled the aubergine cup, and poured liquor into the dead man's mouth. The other figure took the dead hand and removed the gold ring, slipping it under his waistcloth. Both figures lifted the mandarin to a sitting posture, clamped his fingers about the half-emptied cup, left him drooped over in a huddled position as though he had died while drinking.

Then the two saffron figures flitted to the window again, silently. The paper screen was moved back into place. If two nearly naked men vanished into the garden of the temple, only the moonlight could tell.

IT WAS nearly midnight when Jim Hanecy, sitting over a chessboard with his friend Kiang, the fur dealer, was checkmated for the last time. At this instant a gong throbbed somewhere. Kiang arose and excused himself to answer a summons. Hanecy yawned.

He had been extricated very neatly from his afternoon's predicament by two minor members of the kung-so to which Kiang belonged. They had smuggled him home again to the merchant's house, where he had learned that the yamen was seeking him― that he was accused of the murder of Wu Liang on overwhelming evidence. Hanecy wanted to go out and fight, but Kiang gently counselled the chessboard Instead. And, being wise in some ways, Hanecy had assented. Now, Kiang came back into the room, smiling to himself.

"There have been Interesting happenings at the yamen," he said blandly, stuffing some tobacco into his long pipe and sucking at it. "Your compatriot, Benson, gave the Chang-chun poisoned whisky. The mandarin is dead. Benson escaped, has probably fled by way of the river. Everything is in confusion at the yamen. I have Just had a full report from a tong brother who is to be trusted."

Hanecy came to his feet with a startled oath.

"What? Benson wouldn't do that, Kiang! He's rotten, but he'd never poison―"

The fur merchant waved his hand gently.

"The evidence was very clear, I understand. I have no doubt that Benson realized the evidence was overpowering against him. Still, he has escaped, and will probably get away. You would not be sorry to have him gone, I think?"

Hanecy sat down, frowning savagely.

"Look here― I wouldn't have you murder Benson, just because I don't like him!"

"No. I think that he will get away," repeated Kiang, smoothly. Here was an admission, practically an open confession. Hanecy looked at the fur dealer with unconcealed admiration. It was only this morning that he had mentioned the affair to Kiang at all. Now, within a few hours, the gentlemen of the trade guild had written a new leaf in the history of Sze-chuan province!

"Kiang, I'll have to hand it to you!" said Hanecy, beginning to understand a good many things. "You had your men watching me all day, eh? And this business tonight at the yamen― was that accident or design? The mandarin's death, I mean."

The fur merchant sucked reflectively at his pipe.

"Ah! A combination of both," he answered, smiling slightly.

"But why?" Hanecy looked helpless and perplexed. "I've no objections to the gentleman passing to his ancestors, or to Benson being sent packing to the coast― but why? I thought you chaps were strong for justice―"

Kiang uttered a dry and cackling laugh.

"My friend, you were certain that Benson murdered  Yu Liang. Benson was certain, it appears, that you had done so. As a matter of fact, it was the mandarin who had Wu Liang murdered!"

"You have proof of this?" demanded Hanecy, eagerly.

"The best in the world," and Kiang quietly handed him the ambassador's ring. "This was taken from the finger of the mandarin."

Hanecy looked at the circlet with its green jasper stone. Only two days had elapsed since he first saw it; in those two days it had brought death to many men. Here lay the thing in his hand― he slipped it on his finger reflectively.

"See here!" Hanecy looked at the fur merchant reflectively. "I would like to buy the collection of Wu. Do you think that it might be arranged when the new mandarin is appointed here? Would your tong have any influence toward that end?"

"It might be arranged," said Kiang. "Has the affair been concluded thus far to your entire satisfaction? Is the ring the same one you desired?"

Hanecy took the hint, and got out his pocketbook. "I've no kick to register," he said, and grinned.

______________________

7: The Image of Earth

The Sunday Star, Washington, D C,  15 Jan 1922

JIM HANECY, the red-headed American, whose doctrine of pitiless efficiency had made him one of the most successful agents and dealers in Chinese objets d'art, stood on the deck of his chartered river boat and bade farewell to Cheng-tu.

"About the best clean-up I've ever made!" he reflected. "We've got most of the things taken from the grave of the Emperor Ling Ti; also, we have the whole magnificent collection of Wu Liang the antiquary. We'll clear big money on this― if we safely reach the coast. And Benson― driven him out!"

This was true enough. Benson had fled for his life from Cheng-tu. Crooked work was well enough along the coast, but up in the interior of China old-fashioned ethics prevailed.

Jim Hanecy was glad that he had seen the last of Benson. He opened and read again the note he had received at the last moment from his partner, Toptit, who had gone down-river to secure, if possible,  the Image of Earth.

"Have secured the Image. Am stopping at the Sen-chi villa near the Pe-lo-chou. Shall wait for you. Pick me up. Toptit."

Hanecy called the master of his boat.

"Do you know where the Pe-lo-chou is― the beach of white herons?

"Half-way to the Yang-tse, Excellency." was the prompt response. This indicated about a hundred miles down the Min-kiang, on which river they were voyaging.

"There is a villa near that spot― the Sen-chi villa?"

The captain repressed a smile.

"I would hardly call It by the polite name of villa," he answered. "The Winning Game House, as its name signifies, is devoted to the pleasure of gambling. There are women also. Once it was a very fine resort for mandarins, but now only unworthy persons frequent it."

HANECY frowned at this. Neither gambling houses nor women would have drawn Toptit there; somehow it did not look right. But since his partner was there, he ordered the captain to stop at the White Heron Beach. Then, observing a great activity of workmen and teams on the shore, outside the Cheng-tu walls, he asked the reason of it.

"That is the new landing station, Excellency," said the captain, "for the line of air machines between this place and Shanghai. A mail-and-passenger service."

Hanecy remembered, and eyed the dust-clouded work with interest. A company, confined to Chinese merchants, with a capital of nearly a million, had organized this air service fifteen hundred miles above the Tang-tse and Min rivers, from Shanghai on the coast to the great plain of Cheng-tu far inland.

"If I'd waited a few weeks," thought Hanecy, "we might have flown to the coast! I wonder where that scoundrel Benson went to? It'd be like him to try and lay me out on the voyage down, and get the whole shipload of loot! I wish he'd try it."

It did not occur to Jim Hanecy that Benson, maddened by his repeated defeats, might have thought of this little scheme some time previously.

Toptit had secured the Image of Earth― how, does not matter here. and was really at the Winning Game House. This much was true, right enough.

THE SEN-CHI-LOU was a disreputable ruin set amid wondrously beautiful surroundings by the river. Once a resort of mandarins. It was now a den of thieving, lechery and murder. Its delicate buildings were filthy and ruinous; its magnificent gardens had been untouched for a score of years. The wide fields beside it, where once the most delicate melons and rare delicacies had been grown, were now knee-deep in uncut grass. The orchard had been cut down for firewood. The place lay in a backwater of the river. Here was a wide beach of white sand where white herons had come in flocks through unknown centuries. A gradual ascent from the beach still bore traces of its wondrous gardening and landscape work; then the buildings themselves, faintly gay with old gilding and lacquer. Still very beautiful, one had to come close to realize that this was in reality a whited sepulchre. where the lowest of rivermen gambled and drank and lusted after abomination. Half a dozen small craft lay tied at the neglected, crazy landing-place. In the main pavilion, whose tattered silken hangings had once witnessed the poetical competitions of mandarins; the keen Intellectual pursuits of scholarly men; the gently veiled and refined obscenity of talented courtesans and courtly princes― there was now another scene. Nearly naked coolies guzzled their wine sweatingly; low women exchanged vile jests across the dice; In one corner huddled a yellow body with a knife-hilt protruding from the neck. Over the place hovered a raw, shameless debauchery. Into the main doorway came a white man. This was Benson― rather small, smooth-spoken, always deadly cool.

Benson, whose affiliations with the tongs of thieves and river folk brought into his hands many stolen, beautiful things. Although he had fled for his life from Cheng-tu, Benson had not fled far before finding
friends and a haven.

AT sight of Benson there fell silence on the pavilion. All gazed furiously at him. There were more than a dozen men in the place. Their leader, a brawny and scarred pilot of the gorges named Shwang, came to his feet and spoke with some respect. Benson silenced him with a gesture, and spoke fluently in the local dialect.

"The river is being watched for the approach of any boat from the north?"

"Nine eyes watch, my father."

"Nine eyes?" Benson frowned a little. "You mean―"

"Tu, the one-eyed, and four others, my father."

Benson smiled, and there was a chorus of ribald laughter that quavered up to the broken roof. With a gesture of dismissal, Benson turned and left the pavilion. He approached a small summer-house In the centre of the garden.

Across the entrance was sprawled a naked man, asleep. Benson stirred him with his foot The naked one leaped up and a knife flamed in the sunlight. At Benson's smile, the knife fell and the man stood back with an ashamed murmur.

Benson went into the little house. There was but one room, circular in shape.  In the centre arose a carved pillar of nammu wood, thick and substantial. A graver's inscription showed that it had been cut and carved in the third year of the reign of Kang-hsi, yet it still filled the room with a subtly aromatic sweetness. Tied to this carven pillar with a knotted cord of silk was Toptit. True, he was not particularly happy, but he was quite at his ease to all appearances.

Toptit, who was a poet as well as a dealer in antiques, was rather deceptive in looks; one of his strong points, this. He was a gangling, awkward Yankee, always quite innocent about the eyes, and unconquerably cheerful. Most people― including Benson― took him for a fool who had a fool's luck. Those who. upon this assumption, undertook to rook Toptit either revised their opinions ruefully or else enjoyed their six feet of earth In silence. Benson was the first man who had managed to "get" Toptit― which speaks well for Benson's ability. There were reasons for Toptit's being lashed to the carven pillar; for his wrists being bound in front of him until the flesh-biting silk had turned the hands swollen purple; for his ankles being bound likewise. Shwang, the river pilot, had lost four men before he had captured Toptit― and he ad found the American asleep at that.  Something of this showed at the dried blood streaked across Toptit's face.

"Hullo," said Benson amiably. "Getting enough to eat?"

"Plenty thanks," said Toptit in his cheerfully negligent way. "But I would appreciate a smoke, if you have one to spare."

Benson produced cheroots. He took one himself, then placed one between Toptit's lips, and held a lighted match to each.

This done, he seated himself opposite his captive and inspected the latter critically.

"Oh, I'm all here," said Toptit. "What's troubling me is, why don't you have me killed?"

"Because I m expecting Hanecy," he answered. "I wrote him in your name."

"Oh," said Toptit. He gave no sign of the awful chill that swept his spine. "That's good of you. But―"

"You see," explained Benson calmly, "you're only an incident, but Hanecy is something else, again. He'll bring all the stuff with him that you and he have collected; I'll take the lot, thanks. Then Hanecy will watch while you're wiped out. The process of wiping out will be slow,  and that will hurt him bad― and I mean to hurt him to the soul before I'm done with him."

"You're a hell of a white man," was wrenched from Toptit.  Then he forced himself to smile again. "Bet you ten dollars Jim doesn't fall into your trap."

Benson merely laughed at this. From his pocket took a small object and set it on the floor between himself and Toptit.

This object was a cylinder of old yellowish Han Jade, square on the outside, with the cavity perfectly round. A thick round lip projected about each end of the cylinder.  This object had been taken from the tomb of the Emperor Ling Ti. the Eastern Han dynasty, and by Toptit just before his capture.

"Why do you call this an Image of the Earth?" asked Benson meditatively. "It's the wheel nave of an Imperial Jade chariot."

"You're wrong," said Toptit.

"I'm right," asserted Benson, who usually knew what he was talking about. "Bushell has identified those objects as such, and there's no authority beyond him."

"Yes, there is―common sense," said Toptit. "Bushell got his data out of the old classical work the Ku Yu T'u P'u and that was utterly wrong. If you'd kept up with these things, you'd know. Laufer has published the matter fully. He has identified these things as images of the deity Earth. This is the forty-seventh specimen known to be In existence."

"On what grounds?" Benson spoke as calmly as though discussing the matter in some drawing room, and Toptit met his manner with equal phlegm.

"He's  identified them with the t'sung mentioned In the chronicles of the Chou dynasty as images of the deity Earth. The shuo Wen calls the t'sung an auspicious Jade resembling a wheel nave. There's the root of the mistake―"

"But an Image of Earth is said to have eight sides!" broke in Benson perplexedly. "It's been figured by Gingell and others as an eight-pointed star." ]

"All bosh," said Toptit. "Look at the thing, there― you'll find four corners at each end of the cylinder. There are your eight angles; just as the Chinese call a rectangular block octagonal― because it has eight corners or angles. The shape is the common symbol of Earth. Look the thing up yourself and you'll find I'm right."

"Very likely," said Benson, "Very likely." He stared at the object with reflective eyes, for the moment quite absorbed in it.  A shrill scream came suddenly from outside― a scream filled with fear, horror, woe― a scream wrenched from the very soul of a man.

Benson leaped to his feet, thrust the jade into his pocket and was gone.

Toptit, left alone in the room, bowed his head, the cigar in his mouth. Then he realised the utter futility of his half-formed plan.

He might burn through the cord about his wrists; but before he could do this he must burn through the cord about his waist. Before this the cord about his shoulders. Impossible!

He spat out the cigar, half In hopes that it might set the floor afire. But it only smouldered there on the floor, and the thin line of blue smoke became thinner, thinned down into nothing.

Outside Benson had found the guard prostrate on the earth In terrible fright.

The man had some tale of a monstrous bird that had swooped down close above his head, all but seizing him; a bird the size of a house. Benson swore at the fool. The thought of an airplane did occur to him, but he had heard no motor and so dismissed the notion. He went on to the main pavilion. Shwang and the others assembled there had heard nothing. He passed down to the White Heron Beach itself and located Tu the One-eyed. Tu and his four men swore that there had been no such bird: but as they were located amid thick bushes with a view only of the river, their testimony was not important. Benson was satisfied beyond question that the guard had been dreaming.

He was very quickly diverted from the subject, however. Tu the One-eyed pointed out a river boat which, instead of keeping: in the usual traffic lanes, was most certainly headed over for their bank. As Tu observed grimly, few boats came this way unless they had business. Benson knew that Hanecy was coming Into his hands at last― and with Hanecy a very choice lot of plunder. Deep hatred burning in him, Benson sent to the pavilion for Shwang, and presently rivermen and women came trooping forth in company, eager to take part In the coming ambuscade. They hurried forth to the White Herron Beach every last soul of them― even the guard from Toptit's cage rushed to join the fun, loath to miss his share of the takings.

Benson, who was paying well for obedience, gave strict orders that Hanecy was to be allowed to land, and then taken alive. His hatred was too bitter, too intense, to be satisfied with a quick death. For the moment this man was tainted with the bestial urge of the yellow brutes around him, filled with the fever of passion and blood-lust that was theirs. He had set it to work as his servant, and now it was mastering him.

Laughter rippled among the rocks and bushes above the shore, as men and women settled down, veritable harpies who awaited the coming of their victims. There was something shrill and viciously terrible in that bubbling laughter. Then the shore was silent again.

JIM HANECY, standing in the prow of the boat with the captain, scrutinised the landing-place carefully. There was no sign of life visible on the shore or up at the buildings; the whole place appeared deserted. A dozen white herons stalked along the sandy beach!

"This is a place of evil talk, heavenborn," protested the Captain for the last time as the boat drew toward shore and the sail was run down. "Junks have vanished; there is rumour of piracy―"

"It looks peaceful enough," said Hanecy, frowning at the shore. "Besides, my friend is here, if he's in trouble, he needs me. If not, we'll be gone in five minutes."

The captain made a gesture of resignation and turned away. The boat's prow scraped the shelving sand; the white herons flapped into the air and sailed slowly away. Hanecy Jumped ashore and strode toward the pavilion above.

At his third step, a bush moved. At his fourth a net was flung over his head. Hanecy fired one shot, and Tu the One-eyed died there; then the net was drawn tight and men were on top of him. There was an outburst of musket-shots. Black powder smoke obscured the Beach of White Herons and from the smoke came the shrill screams of dying men, the curses of Hanecy, and the terrible wild laughter of naked women, whose knives dripped red.

AFTER Benson left him, and his cigar-smoke thinned out to nothing on the floor, Toptit quite gave up hope. He drooped in his lashings. Tortured by the pain of his wounds, and weary as he was,  none the less his eyes closed and a fitful sleep of exhaustion rested upon him. This slumber lasted only for a moment or two at a time.

"Damn you, Benson!" He spoke unconsciously, his body asleep, his brain tortured by pain. "You've got us this time― but you'll never make us whine!"

A voice broke In― a new voice strangely clear and virile.

"Hullo! 'Pon my word, old chap, this is most extraordinary, y'know! Eh?"

Toptit's eyelids lifted heavily. "Go to hell!" he muttered, still half consciously. "You can't make us― good Lord! Who are you? Are you real or― or―"

"I was about to put the same question," came the response.

Toptit stared wildly at the long, clean-limbed, leather-clad Englishman. who, bare-headed was inspecting him with Imperturbable calm. He thought he must have gone mad.

"If you're a― a ghost, all right," he mumbled. "If you're real, get out of here― worst lot of cutthroats― coming to murder me."

He slumped down In the knotted silken cords, and his head lulled forward. At this instant came the crack of an automatic pistol from the river, followed by a crash of muskets, the screams of men and the shrill jackal-cry of women.

The Englishman shivered, then woke Into action. No fool, this man from the sky! He slashed Toptit free and dragged the senseless body to the entrance. One swift glance showed him the deserted gardens, the abandoned pavilion beyond; he cocked his ear at the murderous tumult from the river, and nodded. Then he leaped back into the little summer house.

A wax vesta from his case, and another. He held the little tongues of flame to the lattice-work of the walls. The thin wood, gilded and lacquered carving that had known no rain for two hundred years, embraced the slavering tongues eagerly. Before the man was back at the entrance flames were roaring.

THE Englishman stooped, and came erect with the senseless Toptit across his shoulders. Hardly stooping under the weight, he ran back the way he had come―ran across the overgrown garden and compound, passed through the ruined and empty gateway in the rear wall and was gone among the young trees which formed a wind-break at the crest of the rise, behind the Sen-chi house.

There, among the trees, he dropped his burden. Only a thin, weakly growth of trees, these, where once had towered graceful forest chieftains for the delight of mandarins. On the far side of them glimmered the wide meadow of bush grass where the rare gardens had flourished. In the midst of this tall grass lay the wide wings of a plane, one wing crumpled and broken. A bad landing, obviously.

The Englishman lighted a cigarette. Then, retracing his steps a little, he looked curiously at the place he had just left. In the centre of the gardens the little summer house was roaring up in a column of flame. Men came running, weapons in hand, oaths outpouring. In the van was Benson, and after him a string of yellow fiends, blood-stained, lusting. The Englishman watched, and speedily came to some understanding of the situation.

BENSON cursed furiously, yet neither he nor other men might approach that blazing column of fire wherein― as all thought, Toptit had been consumed.

Hanecy was dragged forward into the garden― a wild figure, fast In the net that held him helpless. Benson swore at him in frantic rage, in drunken exultation; struck him across the face again and again―  then snapped out an order and the netted Hanecy was dragged away.

"Pon my word!" muttered the Englishman amazedly.

"The beggars don't know I'm here― what?"

When Toptit came to his senses hot coffee from a thermos bottle was trickling down his throat, and his wrists had been rubbed and kneaded back into revivified action. He sat up and stared at the Englishman.

"You're real!"

"I fancy so," admitted the other, chuckling. "Dev'lish uncertain, this life, what?"

"Where's Benson? Where am I? Look out for them―"

"RIght-o! Another sip of this coffee― good! All snug here, old chap."

"Who are you?" demanded Toptit with more coherency.

"Craven, R. A. F. I'm a loan to the Chinese government― plottln' out a bit of the new air route up from Shanghai. Little bit of all right, my comin' along, what? Engine went dud at five thousands. Came down In the meadow yonder. Rotten smash; have to send back to Chung-king now. All clear! Who's your friend Benson?"

Little by little, Toptit came to understand the miracle. When he learned what Capt. Craven had seen in the garden, recently, he groaned. Hanecy captured! Craven was imperturbable, however, and suggested a cigarette.

"Won't do to get the wind up, old dear! Cheero! What price a helping hand, eh?"

Toptit gathered by degrees that this was an offer of alliance.

JIM HANECY, still in the net that had enmeshed him and further wound about with rope, was slung to a pillar in the main pavilion and allowed to hang like a quarter of beef during most of the afternoon.

He saw two of his boat's crew slaughtered there before his eyes, and it did not improve his temper.

Hanecy was something of a fatalist. He had every reason to suppose that Toptit was dead, as Benson stated; yet he was by no means certain. He knew Toptit better than most people did. So, as he hung in his net and witnessed the wild orgy of blood, lust and liquor that went on in the pavilion, he was thinking rather of himself than of Toptit's fate.

TOWARD evening Benson came into the place, glanced In distaste at the scene around, and then came to Hanecy. He looked up at the latter with a twisted grin.

"Ah, Mr. Hanecy! You see that I have come out into the open against you at last, as you have so often begged that I would!"

Hanecy said nothing. Benson held up the Image of Earth.

"Here is the deity. Earth, which I took from your late partner. There are only ten in existence outside of China; really quite a find, Hanecy! I've been looking over the stuff in your boat― a most remarkable collection. I must congratulate you! But you were Just a bit too greedy. If you'd let the last piece go. you might have been safe. You had to have It all― and now you've lost it all. Tomorrow I'll start for the coast, with your boat. Any message to send?"

Hanecy glared down at him and held his peace. Benson chuckled softly.

"You can hang over night and cure," he purred. "Tomorrow these gentlemen will attend to you. I hate to come down to actual murder.  Hanecy, but I don't imagine that I'd be very safe if you were to live, and I believe In looking after number one and sleeping sound. So long! See you later. Toptit set fire to his cage with a cigar I gave him, so I shan't offer you a smoke."

Benson departed.

AN hour passed, and another. Darkness fell. With whoops and bestial Jokes, the pilot Shwang and his crew brought in a box of candles that Hanecy had meant to pack to the coast― fine temple candles from the famous Ching-yang shrine; great two-foot candles of soft wax with cotton wicks an inch thick, the outside of each candle painted garishly in grease paint. The band removed these candles from the bamboo cases, set them up, lighted them; the candlesticks were huge bronze affairs with pricked ends. Now the wine flowed freely.

Another hour. One of the maudlin women brought a flaring candle and set it in a pricket-socket under the swinging captive, so that the smoky flame of it ran up the back of his legs. Grasping the idea, amid howls of mirth, other candles were brought, so that Hanecy was presently swinging over a dozen of the flaming things, while about him danced the band In wild obscene ravings, maddened by the hot wine and the writhing of their captive. Hanecy spun slowly in his net, like an ox on a spit.

"Keep it up. you devils out of hell!" he gasped suddenly, feeling a strand of the net part under his feet. "Two minutes more and I'll be down among you!"

"Take It easy, Jim," said a voice at his rear― the voice of Toptit. "Say the word when you're ready."

Startled almost out of his senses, the tortured American looked up. There, at a carved and gilded embrasure beside the pillar to which he was hung he perceived the face of his partner. Toptit was cutting at the carved work with a knife and was out of sight from the floor of the pavilion, having climbed to his present perch from outside.

"Ready," he gasped. "I'm ready now, confound you! The net's burning!"

"Then go ahead," said Toptit coolly.

Hanecy had been clinging to the net with his hands, supporting his weight from the flame-rotted strands beneath.

Now he let himself go, slumped downward suddenly. The rope wrapped outside the net was not tight enough to hold him. The smouldering net burst from about his feet, and he dropped like a plummet. With a crash and an oath, he struck the score of candles below and scattered them.

A howl of drunken delight went up from the crew.

Shwang lurched forward and threw himself at Hanecy, who lay among the spluttering candles. But Hanecy rose to meet him .rose and met him with one kick that took the drunken ruffian under the chin.

Shwang pitched sideways with his neck broken.

From the side wall above Hanecy cracked out a shot. From the doorway cracked another. Hanecy himself, pausing not to weigh odds, caught up the nearest candlestick― a three-foot affair of bronze― and crushed the head of the closest man. His red hair, his blood-streaked face, his wildly gleaming eyes of steel, showed the berserk fury that was on him.

Hanecy never likes to tell of just what happened In that pavilion―although when he does tell of it he lays stress upon the bodies of his two tortured boatmen. There was no escape through the main door, and in this doorway stood Capt. Craven, a cigarette between his lips and a Browning In each hand. At all event, it was probably only a moment or two before fire from the overthrown candles was streaking up the walls.

"Chuck It!" exclaimed Craven, as Hanecy swung past him in pursuit of a screaming ruffian. "Chuck it! We've barely time to get away from here."

"Where's Benson?" Hanecy turned upon him savagely.

"At the boat― waitin' for us."

Hanecy took one look at the pavilion― and turned with a shudder. He flung down the bloody candlestick.

"Leave it be!" he said. "Let's get out of here."

"Rlght-o!"

They left the doorway, and Toptit met them. None of the three turned to look back at the blazing inferno. Hanecy paused to ask no questions, never so much as looked at Craven, but, as was his custom, coolly took entire command of things.

"You've tied up Benson?" he snapped.

"We have," said Toptit. "Your stuff is all aboard the boat. We have only to push out and be off. What are you going to do with Benson?"

Hanecy did not answer, but strode toward the river. A broad glare of light was rising from the burning building behind them. All the water was red as blood. Illumined like day. Hanecy came to his boat and saw Benson in the bow, trussed firmly, his face wild with fright.

"Shove off," said Hanecy scrambling abroad. "I am going to be busy here."

BENSON swore at him, then begged for mercy. Hanecy Ignored him, while Craven and Toptit shoved the boat off. Searching Benson, Hanecy found the Image of Earth and grimly set it on the deck. Through the Jade cylinder he passed a length of line; the other end he made fast to an old iron plough used for an anchor, after disconnecting the plough from Its fastenings.

"We've shed a lot of blood over this image." he said to Benson, who was staring wildly at him. "Now, we'll let It settle things. I'll give you an even break, you dog: I can't murder you, as you deserve. Toptit! Come here."

Toptit approached. Under Hanecy's directions he loosened Benson, freed him, left him squatting shivering on the deck.

He then cut two ten-foot lengths of line from a coll. One of these he made fast to the jade Image of Earth and the iron plough. He then mixed the two lengths of rope In a confused mass― not tangling them, but leaving them in a heap above the heavy weight. Benson stared In fascinated horror.

"Take your choice of the lines, Benson," said Hanecy coldly. "We can make fast. then jump overboard. One of us goes down with the Image of Earth. The other floats. I'm giving you first choice. Pick your line!"

Benson chattered a profane refusal. Capt. Craven smiled and swung up his pistol.

"I say, Benson! Take it sportin', now!"

With a furious cry Benson seized one of the projecting ends of rope. Toptit fastened it about his ankles. Hanecy calmly sat on the rail and extended his legs for the other line. Toptit made his fast. It was impossible to tell which line went to the anchor.

"Come on, Benson!" said Hanecy. contempt in his eyes. "If you live, you can swim ashore. You're getting an even break, damn you! Toptit, count three; if he doesn't Jump shoot him."

"One!" said Toptit. hauling out his pistol.

Benson caught the bulwark and drew himself up beside Hanecy, shaking like death.

Two!" said Toptit.

Side by side, they made ready for the plunge. Craven picked up the anchor and heap of rope and set it between them, on the bulwark.

"Three!" said Toptit, and Craven let the weight fall overboard as the two men awkwardly jumped.

Toptit and Craven stood side by side, gazing down at the reddened swirl of water under the boat's prow. She was drifting idly, a hundred feet from shore. The Senchi pavilion was spouting bloody flames at heaven, but the two men stared at the water below them, and their eyes darkened as the ripples of the splash slowly died away― and no swimmer emerged.

"No tangle in the lines. What?" murmured Craven.

"None," said Toptit. Then his voice broke. "Why the devil didn't he shoot Benson and be done with it?"

They stood there for a moment longer, then looked at each other, in terrible conviction. Before either man could speak a voice came from the water― came up from the stern of the boat, out of sight:

"Throw a line, there!"

It was the voice of Hanecy.

___________________

8: Little Tomtit

The Sunday Star, Washington, D C,  Jan 22 1922

WE WERE in the lounge room or the club, at Tientsin, at the moment.

"Business has nothing to do with romance," observed Toptit sagely, "but the romance of business has a good deal to do with the business of romance, if you get my meaning."

"That," said Crayton, coarsely, "is because you're a poet and a fool, Tomtit!"

A stiff silence followed. The boys discreetly vanished. We all thought that Toptit had been goaded far enough by Crayton, and we secretly hoped there would be a knockdown and a scandal, so that we could kick Crayton out of the club.

Toptit only smiled, and patted his dress tie with an air of approval. He quite Ignored the "Tomtit" which Crayton invariably flung at him.

"My good Crayton," he said pleasantly, "you don't like me. Why?"

Crayton glared savagely at him.

"I'll tell you why! Because you've come to China a green cub and are running wild up and down the coast, that's why! You and your poetry and your dashed nonsense― it'll ruin business for the rest of us!"

"Hope so." said Toptit sweetly. "It won't ruin my business, though! You can't make friends among Chinese gentlemen by eulogizing their treasures in verse; I can. You go around buying jewels arid paintings and things with money! I buy 'em with money plus poetry, which means a lot more to an impoverished classical scholar."

"All bull!" growled Crayton, getting red. "You and your classical rot!"

Toptit regarded him with a maddening suavity.

"Ah!" he said, putting a singular meaning into the word. "Ah! Let me tell you something. I'm off for Fuchow in the morning, to get that screen from the old mandarin Wing."

At this. Crayton came bouncing out of his chair. His hand slipped toward his armpit, and for an instant I thought he meant to shoot Toptit. Rank murder was in his eyes. Then he mastered himself, and stood there trembling with fury.

"Look here!" His voice was thick and hoarse. "I've been after that screen for a year. I mean to get it. I have an order for it. It's mine! If you butt into my affairs. I'll run you out of China! Understand that?"

Toptit, who was rather lanky, but singularly graceful and alert, bowed mockingly from his hips. That bow should have warned Crayton, for few men can manage it aright, and those few are dangerous.

"Thank you, my dear Crayton," he answered, his wide and homely mouth transfigured by a smile of genuine pleasure.

"I accept the challenge gladly! I return your verbal gauntlet with one small warning: Don't forget that your wife lives in Chicago."

Crayton rocked on his feet as though beneath a blow. His heavy, brutally dominant face became mottled, then was overspread by a mortal pallor. What the words means, he did not know; but he knew. With a single virulent oath, he turned on his heel and left the club.

I buttonholed Toptit In one corner, and I was careful not to call him Tomtit by mistake.

"Half a mo", old man! You don't realize Crayton's ability, I'm afraid. He's a brute to have for an enemy. What's that about his wife in Chicago?"

Toptit regarded me, and there was a peculiar shadow In his wide gray eyes.

"Nothing for publication," he said curtly. "What'd you do in my place?"

"Leave China tomorrow," I answered with sober emphasis. "I mean it! Crayton Is wealthy. He is agent for several big dealers back home, also for a number of millionaire Jap clients. He sends out more antiques and museum pieces than the rest of you chaps combined. He has influence."

"Ah!" said Toptit with an inane grin. "But don't forget that I'm a poet! Thanks, old man. Thanks and all that. Now I must be off."

I watched him go from the club and regretfully shook my head. He was rather new in China I felt that if he interfered with Crayton's affairs he would be murdered. You may think that is stretching it a bit; but If you know anything about the scarcity of antiquities in China, the jealousy and enmity and crime behind the securing of these pretty objects sold on Fifth avenue for small fortunes― if you know about this, you'll know that I am not exaggerating.

THE mandarin Wing, who lived in a charming old temple-suburb of Fukien, was a survival of the imperial regime. He clung to its traditions of art and concubines and ruthless ways; he was not old, but he was quite poor. All he had left was his family collection of art, and once every two years or so he sold a piece of this. It was like pulling a tooth. Wing had once been a diplomat in London, and was an educated gentleman. with cultivated appreciation of occidental things, combined with passionate love for the artistry of his own people. Every agent and dealer in China was on the qui vive to get something from Wing's treasures. You must understand that there are various classes of dealers. Some ship imitation junk to interior decorators, who value only colour; others supply wholesale bazaar dealers; the aristocrats of the profession seek really artistic things, museum pieces. Under this last head fell Crayton, who was a business man, and Toptit, who was a poet.

Toptit naturally suggested Tomtit, and "Little Tomtit" had been fastened one the poet from the first.

Calmly oblivious, he went his way and created chaos among his competitors. He had his own methods of doing business. and they were apt to be surprising at times. He came to Fukien with letters of introduction to Wing from an obscure Tientsin poet-painter, and the mandarin welcomed him with grave courtesy. There was no mention of business, though each man knew that the other man understood perfectly.

Immediately he came Into the house Toptit perceived that something was terribly amiss. The servants were frightened. Wing himself, a stately man with wispy beard and moustaches, wore an air of preoccupation. The tea was inferior In quality. Host and guest, however, ignored all this and exchanged many compliments.

At dinner Toptit saw the screen for which he had come. It was the only object In the room, a screen of three panels. The centre panel held a painting on brown silk, showing a groom or syce with his horse beneath a gnarled tree. The two side panels were of blank brown silk, bearing: only the vermilion seals of mandarins who had owned the screen.

Toptit expressed his admiration, and the mandarin discussed the screen with loving tenderness.

"You will observe that there are six ideographs." said Wins complacently. "The first four read 'Ku Mo San Mow'. Old Syce and Traveling Horse. The others give the name of the artist, Chang Mow or Jung Moh― a Manchu name, I think. The artist is not remembered. The entire value of the picture, Mr. Toptit, lies in―"

"In the red robe of the old syce," said Toptit. The mandarin beamed approval.

"Good, good! Yes, that red robe is painted with some precipitate of gold, and the secret of this dusky. gold-red paint has been lost for two centuries."

"It's the most beautiful red I ever saw in my life," said Toptit sincerely. "That dusky gold running through it is magnificent: I suppose it is very valuable?"

"A Japanese millionaire has offered me ten thousand yen for it," said Wing.

"Ah! It is worth double that. Unfortunately, I don't suppose any ordinary dealer could offer more than a thousand dollars."

Wing understood this bid perfectly, and smiled his bland smile.

"I would not sell that screen to any Nippon man for a million yen," he said. For a brief instant his lips clenched into a thin, cruel smile. One gathered that he did not like the Japanese. "I have been informed that this screen was going to Japan in spite of me."

This sounded like Crayton, who acted for a number of millionaire clients in Japan, where almost any price will be paid for Chinese works of art that are rare and authentic.

"The Nagasaki Herald refused to publish some of my verses," said Toptit reflectively. "Ever since I have been prejudiced against Japan. Well, this screen is wonderful! I can imagine old Chang Mow sitting on a bridge and sketching this scene, the old syce propping one foot on a gnarled root and delivering his Samuel Weller philosophy, and the horse dozing nearby."

The mandarin smiled, and presently the subject was changed to the bolshevism running rife in the northern provinces. Art was not again mentioned that evening.

UPON the following morning. Toptit went into the city. He had attended one of the great American universities to which had come also certain alert young Chinese under the Boxer indemnity provision, and one of these yellow men lived in Fuchow. He was a fraternity brother of Toptit.

You will observe that Toptit exercised some sagacity in business affairs.

Directing his 'riksha to the South Gate road, in the native city, Toptit alighted and entered a wholesale establishment where cottons and silks were sold. He inquired for the proprietor and was ushered to an upstairs office, where he was presently shaking hands with a spectacled and delighted young Chinaman.

"I got your letter," said Toptit, hauling out his pipe as he sat down, "and I came right along. I must thank you for the tip― that screen is a wonder!"

"Good! Old Wing will sell it to you?"

"Not yet," Toptit smiled wryly. "Crayton is after it.  And there seems to be trouble in the home. Now, old man, I'm here for help."

"I'm darned glad!" exclaimed the yellow man beamingly. "The more help I can give, the gladder I'll be. Looks to me as though the Japs had old Wing in a bad mess― perhaps your friend Crayton is behind it. Regular bully, isn't he?"

"Rather," and Toptit smiled. "You mentioned the mandarin's daughter in your letter."

The other nodded soberly. "She disappeared yesterday."

"What!" Toptit sat up. "Why, Wing never hinted at such a thing―"

"Politeness, my dear fellow― courtesy to a guest would not allow him to be troubled with the worries of his host. She's been attending the Women's Medical School here In the city; It's a Christian affair, you know. She disappeared yesterday; that's all."

Toptit stared at his informant and frowned.

"What do you mean― disappeared? Kidnapped?"

"Call it that, for lack of proof. Do yon know what will happen? Today or tomorrow old Wing will receive a polite note suggesting that he sell the Chang Mow screen to Crayton. What can he do? No Chinaman dares to Infringe the sovereignty of the Japanese quarter. The mandarin might know exactly where Miss Tsing is held prisoner; he might know exactly where to find her. he might know exactly who carried her away― and what can he do? Just nothing. That's straight goods, Toptit! Japanese magistrates would simply laugh at him. A Jap can walk into our city and shoot me, for instance. Then go back to his own quarter― and remain untouched!"

Toptit sucked at his pipe for a moment, regarding his informant narrowly.

"Look here!" he exclaimed suddenly. "How d'you know so much, anyhow?"

The young Chinaman made a weary gesture.

"Because I was hoping to marry Miss Tsing in two months."

TOPTIT stared. As though a scroll were unfolded before him, he saw why this astute young man had told him of the wonderful screen, why he had been brought here to Fuchow, and why―

"Your friend Crayton is in town," said the yellow man abruptly.

"The devil! See here, do you know where the girl― Miss Tsing― is held prisoner?"

The other nodded slowly.

"Then," exploded Toptit angrily, "why don't you go get her? What kind of a lover are you?"

His friend smiled sadly

"Don't you see, old man? If I did that the Japanese would say that we were rioting in their quarter, would assess tremendous damages against the province, would make our country give them new concessions! Oh, you ought to know how the game is played, Toptit! You're no fool. I am a Chinaman, and if I raise my hand against a Jap to defend my life or my honour―there's hell to pay for my country. I am a son of Han― that's all."

There was a frightful despondency in his words.

"Damn it!" said Toptit, and rose to his feet. His pipe was shoved into his pocket. "Where is that girl held prisoner?"

The other smiled bitterly. "Don't try it. If you were an Englishman, you might get away with anything, but you're an American. Everybody knows that Americans can be killed with impunity. Everybody Knows that nothing would be done except perhaps a presidential note or two."

"You be darned!" said Toptit calmly.  "Where's that girl, I say―"

The other told him.

THE RIVER Min Kiang divides old Fuchow from the foreign settlement. Toptit sent his 'riksha down the long fishmongers' street that leads to the bridge, then alighted and dismissed it. His long-legged figure strode leisurely across the great stone bridge, and before him was the foreign settlement.

Toptit did not go to the club on the hill, nor did he turn to the right toward the consulates. Instead, he turned to the left and entered the crowded business quarter. Though there are no distinct groupings of foreigners in Fuchow, the Japanese largely predominate south of the custom house. With them, too, congregate many natives who are Japanese subjects― and hence Immune to Chinese law. In China it is very handy to be a Japanese subject.

Toptit walked along with a notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. He was quite oblivious to the sneering laughter that greeted the sight of a white man actually walking.

He appeared to be in no hurry. He would scribble a word or two, glance at the street around, and continue his course. He appeared dreamy, absorbed.

As a matter of fact, he was much pleased with what he was writing.

"It's not a bad conceit," he murmured. "Old Chang Mow Sitting with  his paint pots and scroll of silk, and the syce standing chewing a straw, with one foot propped up on a tree root, and the artist listening to a lecture on how he ought to paint.

"Hell! This must be the place, eh? Confound that Crayton!"

He abruptly closed his notebook and shoved it into his pocket.

He had left the Yamato Kwan behind. Just ahead of him was a fairly respectable house― respectable on the outside, at least― with its door sign in Japanese characters announcing it to be a mere rooming house.

Toptit gave it one sharp glance, then looked at something else. He was quite aware that an instant of hesitation would prove fatal. He knew that eyes were unobtrusively upon him. A look, a gesture, would spoil everything.

So Toptit strode alone as though to pass the rooming house. Opposite the entrance he suddenly turned, and in two strides had his hand on the doorknob. He opened it, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

An instant later he would not have obtained entrance. Two slant-eyed men were already in the hallway, hands under their robes. His entry had halted their advance. Toptit regarded them with a keen scrutiny and shoved his right hand into his pocket. The menace of this gesture was significant.

"What you want?" demanded one of them roughly.

"Crayton," said Toptit. "Where is he?"

The two Japanese uttered exclamations of relief. One vanished. The other beckoned. "You come," he said.

Toptit followed his guide to a stairway, and upstairs to a long corridor. The yellow man knocked at a door, and the voice of Crayton came in a bellow from the room.

"Well, come on in! That you, Tokima Hase?"

"No," said Toptit, standing In the doorway. "It's I."

The door softly closed behind him. Crayton was caught abruptly and oft his guard. He had been reclining in a long chair, sucking a cheroot and reading a French magazine. Beside him on a bamboo stand was a whisky bottle and a siphon. His fleshy figure was clad In dirty white silk pajamas. His jaw dropped as he stared incredulously at Toptit. Then: "The devil! You!"

"I'm not," said Toptit gently. "At least, I hope I'm not any devil. No. don't get up, I beg of you!"

His hand clutched the pipe in his pocket and pointed it. To Crayton it looked terribly like a revolver protruding from the white jacket. Crayton relaxed In his chair.

"You cursed fool! I s'pose you came asking for me and the boys thought you were a friend of mine."

"I suppose so," assented Toptit. "I couldn't very well ask for Miss Tsing, so I asked for you."

The heavy face of Crayton mottled with rage.

"Why― why―"

"If I were you, Crayton, I'd be afraid of apoplexy. Take it quietly, now. I really ought to shoot you. I've considered doing it for a long while."

Crayton turned a shade whiter at this. The deliberate voice of Toptit must have frightened him. The next words of his visitor sent his eyes wide in alarm.

"You know. Crayton," went on Toptit In his horribly gentle way. "Toptit isn't my real name at all― any more than yours is Crayton." His gray eyes rested speculatively upon the large man. Their absence of all enmity lent a fearful emphasis to his next words.

"You married a girl in Chicago two years ago― and deserted her. She was my cousin. My real name is―"

Crayton came out of his chair in a blind spasm of fear and rage, a bellow on his lips. Toptit moved slightly under the attack. Crayton was absolutely beside himself, frantic with the comprehension that Toptit's words had brought him. He launched himself at Toptit and his big fist shot out.

But Toptit calmly kicked him on the shin. Crayton uttered a howl and lost his balance. At that instant Toptit drew back and delivered another kick with the utmost deliberation. His leather toe caught Crayton behind the ear, and the bulk of the big man shivered on the floor.

"I've just written a very decent verse," observed Toptit, "and I really hate to use my hands on you just now. Besides, you never understand my methods. I ought to kill you, but that wouldn't do my poor cousin any particular good, nor me either."

Crayton, who was half-conscious, uttered a moan.

"Oh, you criticize the grammar there?" said Toptit reflectively. "Well, perhaps that is true. I should have said 'or,' but I did not stop to think. I always stumble over that negative proposition. But the point is that killing you would give me no satisfaction. You are a rotten coward at heart, anyway. Where's Miss Tsing?"

Crayton jerked one hand. "Next room," he mumbled. He made an effort to rise. Toptit came forward and kicked him again, this time In the side.

"Stay put until I'm done with you! Hello! Your friends heard the row."

A PATTER of feet in the hall, a knocking at the door, a chattering of sibilant voices outside broke in upon Toptit. He glanced around quickly.

A cheap dresser stood in the corner, beside it a chair bearing Crayton's clothes. Toptit went to the clothes, caught at them, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. A large automatic pistol fell into his hand. He glanced at it, removed the lock, lifted it, and fired at the door.

The deafening explosion was echoed by a shrill scream from the corridor outside. Toptit looked at Crayton's shaking figure, and his wide lips parted In a smile.

"They'll blame you for that, Crayton!" he said calmly. "They'll probably murder you for it, too. If I were you, I'd get away in a hurry― but not by the door. If you come out that door, I'll shoot you. Understand Don't forget. I'll be outside with Miss Tsing."

Toptit opened the door and stepped out Into the corridor. It was empty, except for a dead man who lay huddled outside. He closed the door again and ignored the dead man. He also ignored the hubbub from below and the shouts from the street. Turning to the right, he knocked at the adjoining door. There was no reply and he entered. He found a bare room containing only a cot and a chair. In the chair was tied a Chinese girl, whose eyes rounded largely upon him. She was gagged.

"Ah, Miss Tsing, I believe!" said Toptit.

He put away his automatic and opened a pocketknife as he advanced to her side. "Don't worry, Miss Tsing. I come from your father and your fiancé to bring you home. You won't get there, however, if you faint or indulge in other feminine hysterics. Just keep cool― and follow me."

He began removing her bonds, talking fluently as he did so.

"It's all bosh about Orientals being deep and crafty. They're just as firmly convinced that white men are deep and crafty, only we don't realize It. And the Japs aren't all bad men, either― not by a long shot! It's all in knowing how to handle them. I
sent a note to the Jap consul about half an hour ago. If my coolie delivered it, which I think he did, the consul will be along here at any moment now. Able to stand up, are you? For heaven's sake, don't faint!"

Miss Tsing stood up, a bit weakly.

"I shan't faint," she said, and smiled at Toptit.

"Now, If you'll take my arm, we'll go downstairs―"

"But we can't do that!" she exclaimed, with a sudden pallor. "Don't you hear the shouts and―"

"Nonsense! Just leave it to me," said Toptit confidently.

With a gesture of despair, she took his arm.

They went into the corridor, passed the dead man, and came to the head of the stairs. From here they had a view of the entrance below. Two Japanese were standing there, shouting something to the outside air. They saw Toptit and Miss Tsing and hurriedly decamped.

An instant later the door was burst In, and two Japanese soldiers appeared, a frock-coated man behind them.

"Good afternoon," said Toptit, as he descended the stairs; "I am very glad you got here in time, Mr. Consul."

"What's this?" ejaculated the consul. "You― you accuse my countryman of kidnapping a young lady―"

Toptit waved his hand. "My dear consul, that was all a mistake. The note I sent you was written in error. Your countrymen are blameless, I'm glad to say. The culprit was one of my own countrymen― a fellow named Crayton. I suggest that you investigate fully, and you'll find this to be the case. I'd suggest also that you have this young lady and myself escorted back to the native city. Your co-operation in this matter will reflect great credit upon you and will remove all charges against your countrymen, who are, of course, entirely innocent."

As Toptit said. It was all in knowing how to handle them.

TOPTIT escorted Miss Tsing to the Women's Medical School and left her. Then he went to a curio shop near the south gate and bought several small but worthy objects which attracted him. Later in the day he returned to the suburban home of the mandarin, Wing, and found a new atmosphere about the place.

Wing made no reference to his guest's activities, and Toptit did not mention them. Each man knew that the other man knew, however.

At dinner that evening discussion again fell upon the screen In the dining room.

"I was thinking about that screen today," observed Toptit, drawing forth his notebook. "In fact, It suggested a poem to me― or perhaps I should say a verse."

The mandarin chuckled.

"I appreciate the distinction, Mr. Toptit," he answered. "I have heard that you are a poet, however."

"Well," resumed Toptit. "| was thinking about that old syce over there, and it suggested something to me. If I might bore you with the fragment―"

"My dear sir, the pleasure will be tremendous," averred the mandarin with sincerity. "By all means.'"

"Very well," said Toptit, opening the notebook. "We must imagine Chang Mow at work, you know.

"By the roadside sat Chang Mow,

And with cunning finger laid

His ink and paint to the silk-strip quaint,

While the dapple-gray dozed in the shade.

Then the old syce, mopping his brow,

The critic's art essayed,

As he propped his foot on a gnarled brown not

And discoursed on the painter's trade:

'I've always had an idea,' quoth he.

That I had the soul of an artist in me;

Now, if I were you, I'd change that tree.

By the roadside sat Chang Mow.

Craftsman of paint and ink;

He limned a bough as he best knew how,

And his left eye closed in a wink."

Toptit cleared his throat. "You understand," he said apologetically, "the allusion is to the common quality of human nature which―"

The mandarin smiled and lifted his hand protestingly.

"My dear sir, I understand perfectly. The verse is a gem of words, an exquisite fancy! If I might suggest a slight change in the final line―"

"By all means," hastened Toptit eagerly.

"Instead of saying 'his left eye,' why not make It 'his slant eye'? Don't you think this would be a little more general, a trifle less exact and prosaic?"

"Certainly. But you said that Chang Mow was a Manchu. Therefore he would scarcely have almond eyes―"

"Of course," agreed the mandarin, stroking his wispy gray beard. "Still, the art of poesy has a very catholic latitude, don't you think?"

Toptit regarded his host with some suspicion, but the mandarin remained gravely dignified. Suddenly Wing turned to him.

"You must accept a small and unworthy gift, my friend," he said earnestly.

"I have discovered a very fine bit of real Ming cloisonné in a nearby temple, and have sent for it. It is a hsiang yi, an incense urn, and it is rather remarkable. It will give me great pleasure If you will accept it."

"I shall be indeed honoured," said Toptit in delight. "Why―"

"And if you know of any one who cares to buy this humble screen," the mandarin waved his taper fingers toward the screen. "I shall gladly sell it for a thousand dollars― Mexican."

Toptit started. His bid had been a thousand gold, or had been so intended. However, if the mandarin wanted silver, all right!

"I'll write a check Immediately," he responded.

THAT night in his own room Toptit frowned portentously to himself. He was distinctly worried, troubled, uneasy over some hidden matter. At length he drew out his notebook and once more read over the verse to himself. Then he threw down the little book with an exclamation of annoyance.

"Darn it!" he said. "I don't believe he thought this poem was worth a hang! He didn't even ask to have a copy of it. I wonder if he was making fun about it after I read it?"

He sadly shook his head as he climbed into bed.

End

Table of Contents

- 1: The Second Life of Monsieur The Devil
- 2: The Tale of the Tenth Tablet
- 3: The Emperor's Amulet
- 4: A Tiger Hilt
- 5: Red Amber
- 6: The Ambassador's Ring
- 7: The Image of Earth
- 8: Little Tomtit