The Messenger (Bedford-Jones and Robertson)

by by H. Bedford-Jones and W. C. Robertson

The Messenger

A Complete Novelette

^by By W. C. Robertson and H. Bedford-Jones

THERE is no need of detailing how I came home again to the old house in the sand-lots, to find that my poor mother was taking in lodgers to support herself and her sister. The two of them lived up in the garret, renting out all the rest of the house. Even Aunt Nora's little place down the shore was leased, and the two poor women were roosting up in that bare attic, scrimping along for bare life and trying desperately to make both ends meet.

I changed all that, you may be sure, before I had been home an hour. Think of coming home after four years of wandering, to such conditions!

“Your aunt hasn't been very well lately, Craig,” said my mother, dabbing happily at her eyes. “I'm terribly sorry you have to find things this way. I think we can make room for a cot under the south gable if you're not too proud to put up with us, dear.”

Never a word, mind you, about money or expenses or food. Just plain glad to see me in spite of everything. For ten minutes they talked ahead and then I opened up the grip and showed them what was inside.

I thought they would faint for a while. Then—

“Craig, did—did you come by it honestly?” faltered my poor mother.

“Honestly?”

I let out a great laugh and caught her up in a hug.

“By the gods, I came by it as honestly as ever man came by gold! And now we're going to have a house-cleaning. You'll be back in your own rightful places, you two, within half an hour. I'm going to send your gentlemen lodgers packing in short order——”

“But, Craig!” interrupted Aunt Nora fearfully. “They—they rent by the week and we have no right to eject them after taking their money. You know, by law——”

“Law be cursed!” I said, laughing. “Play with the gold while I'm gone. Here, wait.”

I thrust a handful of the gold into my pocket and went down-stairs, leaving them to cry in each other's arms.

To tell the honest truth, I did wince a little on the way down. If those two women ever suspected just how that gold had been come by, I believe they'd never have touched it. But I told no lies. Did ever man come by gold, sudden gold, hard, round, yellow gold, with any degree of honesty?

Never mind; it caused me no loss of sleep. I had sweated over half the Orient for that gold. I had slaved and bullied and fought for it, from Vladivostok to Bombay but, thank the Lord, I hadn't schemed for it. Nobody could ever call Craig Day a thief or a swindler.

One~can't deny that there had been rough work at times; yet, otherwise, why had I been blessed with a thick skull and a bunch of muscles? That affair in Celebes for example, with the Dutchmen and the oil-wells, and Ike Hastings from St. Louis, and the Chinese tong who thought they had first rights to the oil. Ah, well, poor Hastings was dead, and the others were as leaves in an Autumn wind. Here I was home again. Nothing else mattered.

The thought of those two poor women crying for joy in each other's arms perhaps made me a little wee bit brutal in the way I went about it. Going down-stairs, I sought my mother's room first of all—the room where she had loved to sit and look out over the sea and the lonely sand-lots.

I knocked at the door, got no answer, and opened. There was a stifled cry and I saw an angry young woman jump behind a screen as the lock burst in.

“Get out of here!” she ordered in a shrill voice, peering over the top.

“Not yet, ma'am,” I said. “It's nine o'clock. I want you out o' this room by noon, if you please——”

“Help!” she sung out, then swore at me. “As sure as I've got a friend on the police-force, you'll do time for this. You're no gentleman!”

“I don't claim to be,” I said, and laughed as I tossed a twenty-dollar boy over the screen. “Take that, miss, and there'll be another if you're out at noon. My name's Day, this house is mine, and I'm occupying it at noon. No hard feelings.”

I withdrew, leaving her silenced by the gold. Out in the hall I nearly ran over a man who seemed to think I was a burglar or something.

“What's this, what's this?” he cried excitedly. “Is Miss Matilda calling for help? Put up your hands, there! Explain your business in that room——”

He waved a gun at me, so I wasted no time on him. The gun did not go off, fortunately for my mother's peace of mind. This chivalric person looked pretty sick when I held him up against the wall and talked to him.

“I gave the lady until noon,” I concluded, “but you're all ready to hike, and you've been rude. So hike, friend! Your trunk will be on the sidewalk when you come back, and if you make any fuss I'll have you pinched for assaulting me with that gun.”

I gave the gun back to him and went on, cleaning out the other rats. It became evident, however, that the place could never be reoccupied by my mother in its present condition. Everything was dingy, the carpets were threadbare; and the house needed a complete overhauling. Meantime, the lodgers were getting out.

The last room was my own—my own room, where I had kept my own shelf of boy's books, where I had seen my father for the last time. My room, dear with a thousand memories.

No one answered my knock. The door was locked. A surge of anger rising in me, I put my shoulder to it and entered. And this entry came within a half-inch of being my death.

Perhaps some intuition warned me, held me back the scant second of time that saved me. The knife flashed down past my face, sang by my ear like a bee in wing, ripped the cloth of my coat sleeve and went down into the floor beside my foot. For an instant I stood there in dead fright, since the room was all empty and clear before me. Then I looked up.

It was an easily constructed affair, to one who had the knack—a stout spring of steel, connected by a wire across the door. The lodger had the right to lay such a trap, perhaps; yet the thought of my mother entering that room made me burn. Not that she would have entered when the door was locked, but—well, you understand.

I stooped and drew the knife from the floor, where it was buried for a good half-inch. The blade was six inches, the haft five. The blade was thin steel, the haft light bamboo—an ideal throwing-weapon, you comprehend. Upon the brass cap of the haft there was scratched what looked like a fish-hook.

Examining closer, it became evident that after setting the knife in its holder above the door, one could leave the room, close the door and then set the strap by pulling the wire which had been run through the door-frame. This tenant, I reflected, must have been here for some time; at least, so it looked at the moment. I turned my attention to the room, with a glow of interest in this gentleman.

Somewhat to my surprize; absolutely the only evidence of tenancy was a trunk. Now one must have socks, shoes, perhaps a toothbrush—never a sign of any here. The dresser was empty. This lodger lived, if he lived at all, from his trunk.

The trunk, however, quickened my interest. It was a foreign affair of wicker, covered over with a very heavy canvas and painted black. The lock was double. It was unlike any lock I had ever seen—and I have seen and tampered with several—but something about it had a hint of Chinese. Then, upon the end of the trunk and neatly stenciled in white letters, I saw the name “James Death.”

There was a name for you. Any man placed far above the common herd and mingling only with the elect might carry it. It was hard to fancy any man with that name, however, going up and down the world and mingling with other men; that is, men who did things. He would either live up to that name and be a killer, or else he'd have another name in six weeks.

“If there's another man in this country by that name, I'll eat my hat!” I said to myself. “And that knife—hm! Out you go, James Death, and your knife to boot!”

I picked up the trunk, which was fairly heavy, and lifted it out of the room. Our house was at the ocean-fringe of San Francisco—that line of sand-lots south of the park, at the end of things—and we had a paved street which ended fifty feet beyond the house. There was no other building near by, except Aunt Nora's bungalow over toward the shore, three blocks distant.

THERE was considerable commotion in the house by this time. I carried the trunk out to the street and set it down by the steps. Then, taking the knife from my pocket, I drove it in through the top of the trunk—drove it in to the hilt and left it.

“And if you don't like it, Mr. James Death,” I said grimly, “you just come along and interview me about it!”

This accomplished, I telephoned for a taxicab from the corner drug-store, then went up to the attic and got mother and Aunt Nora together.

“This house will be empty today,” I said. “Your bungalow, Aunt Nora, I'll attend to a bit later——”

“Craig, you must not!” intervened Aunt Nora in dismay. “I've leased it to two very nice young men, an Englishman and his friend, and they're paying well——”

“Nothing doing,” I cut in firmly. “When my cash gives out and I'm gone, then do as you like. But while I'm on the job with money in my pocket, my women-folks aren't going to live in an attic and rent rooms. Mother, who's the man in my room down-stairs?”

Poor mother went white.

“You—Craig—he wasn't there?”

“He was not,” I said. “What about him? Is he a big bully?”

“No. He's a—a little man.” She stopped right there but I saw that she was afraid to say very much. “I—I wish you wouldn't interfere with him——”

“Nothing doing,” I said again. “This is my funeral! Now, you two ladies get your jewelry together. We're going for a ride and you're not coming back for two or three weeks.”

“What do you mean?”

They stared at me, while I fished more gold from the grip and filled my pockets. They must have thought I'd gone mad until I laughed and explained.

“I'm going to renovate here and you're going to have a rest, a complete rest. I'm going to ship both of you off to a mountain resort. First, we're going to chase down Post Street in a taxi and buy black silk dresses and lace nighties and things like that—all we can find. Hurry up and pack your jewelry, now; the taxi will be here directly.”

My Lord, how they fluttered and protested and how happy they were. Just like two kids, those women. If I had several million dollars I'd like nothing better than to go around poking into other people's business and making them happy.

Well, in half an hour the three of us drove away, leaving much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth in our wake. I had discovered without asking any direct questions that James Death was an old and wrinkled man, rather small and bent, an invalid. That was all, and I dismissed the matter.

We had an interesting time, working our way along toward Market Street and the ferry. When we got there, mother and Aunt Nora had each a trunk crammed with all their hearts desired and more. I had ordered paint and other things sent to the house, had men coming to measure for carpets and so forth and was pretty well satisfied. It was four o'clock when I kissed mother and Aunt Nora good-by and saw them aboard a ferry bound for the mountains and mineral-waters and rest. Then I started home.

II

FIVE o'clock saw me at home. Every bird had flown. The only thing left in sight was that trunk belonging to James Death, who had evidently not shown up. I brought it up on the porch out of decency, since the nights were fog-thick.

I wandered about the house. The kitchen and back rooms had been let as a housekeeping-apartment. They were bare of everything. The realization smote me that I had brought home no grub, and there was not an eating-place in miles. Still, there was a corner grocery some blocks distant, and I need not starve. Then came the recollection of Aunt Nora's bungalow. Seizing my cap, I shot out of the back door.

You must not think that my actions were crazy. Our place was fairly close to the Esplanade, so that most of our lodgers were hangers-on of the cafés and other establishments of that section. I did not care for them at all. The thought of Aunt Nora's neat, pretty little bungalow rented to cabaret people infuriated me.

I must have gone storming along over the sand rather gustily, for as I approached the bungalow with its neat hedge and its large garage, a man appeared at the garage door and eyed me, then turned and said something. Another man joined him and both watched my advent. In turn, I watched them and slowed my steps a bit.

Give me the grace of knowing a man when I see one. The red-headed chap who had first observed me I set down for the lesser of the two. The other was a slender fellow who must have topped my six-foot-two by another two inches; he had cropped dark hair, mustache, a face like a knife-blade—keen and virile and chin out—and his eyes told me that he was as good a man as I and perhaps better. I liked his looks at once.

None the less, I was here on business. So I came straight up the drive and halted before the two and set forth my errand.

“Good evening. My name's Craig Day. My aunt is the owner of this property. I've just come home and I want to know if you gentlemen will vacate at once.”

Redhead gaped at me in amazement. The big chap looked rather annoyed.

“I fancy there's some mistake,” he drawled, surveying me with a cool blue eye. “We have leased the property for six months. There's a month yet to run. My name is Kilgore; this is my friend Mr. McAuliffe. Since our lease has been paid in advance——”

“It's not a question of money, gentlemen,” I responded, nettled by his cool survey. “I've just come home to find my mother and aunt sitting in a garret and living by the rental of their homes. It isn't square and I won't have it. They have some right to enjoy the last years of their lives in the sort of home they——”

“Quite right, Mr. Day,” broke in Kilgore. “But we took this place to conduct certain experiments, which are now nearing a conclusion. Further, we have dealt throughout with your aunt, and while you may have every right to speak for her, I would much rather continue dealing with her. Of course, if she wishes us to leave——”

“I sent 'em off to the mountains this afternoon,” I rejoined, “so you'll have to deal with me. I've got the big house cleared out already, thank Heaven!”

“We obsairved the exodus,” and Mr. McAuliffe grinned. His accent was very Scotch. “But ye'll no find us vera tractable persons, laddie. We'll aye stand on our richts!”

“Be quiet, Mac,” said Kilgore. His blue eyes bored into me. “I say, Day, there's no need to get spiffy about this thing. Suppose you have tea with us. We'll talk over the matter amicably, what? I've been going it rather hard and I fancy a cup of tea would buck me up. Mac, be a good chap and lock up the garage, will you?”

I found myself going to the house with Kilgore; the man had a way with him. I had begun to regret my hasty action. The man was a gentleman. Except from a standpoint of sentiment my position was dead wrong. Yet he was calmly taking me in to tea!

Before I realized it, I was warming to Kilgore. He explained that they had turned the garage into a workshop and had their meals sent out from a hotel in the city each day; they had no real need of a car, as the line to Twin Peaks Tunnel was within easy reach. It struck me as a trifle odd that they should have their meals sent from a hotel in town, but of course I made no comment.

I found Aunt Nora's dining-table spread with a snowy cloth. Kilgore uncovered a large dish of excellent sandwiches, set out cigarets and excused himself to set the kettle going in the kitchen.

A careless man is ever prone to the temptation of a snowy table-cloth. As I sat, I picked up a spoon and idly creased the linen. What fancy sped my hand, I know not, but I drew with the spoon-tip that same fish-hook figure which had been on the brass cap of Death's knife. I guessed that it meant something, and yet I knew of no written language that had any such form, though it was not unlike Tibetan.

McAuliffe came into the room and dropped into a chair. Kilgore followed a moment later. All stiffness had vanished among us, and with some bruskerie—for I never like apologies—I asked them to forget my words.

“When I came over here,” I said, “it was with the thought that you were like the tenants at the house. You're not. Just forget the whole affair, if you will. I was a bit carried away with getting home and all that. You're an Englishman, Kilgore?”

“Canadian,” he responded. “Mac here is American like yourself.”

“Like myself is right,” and I grinned across the table at Mac. “My father was Scotch and he had the same lowland burr.”

KILGORE rose and switched on the electric lights, as fog was rolling in and darkening the sunset. The English blood in him showed when he pulled down the shades, although the house was in a lonely enough situation. At this instant a telephone-bell rang and McAuliffe answered the call. The instrument was on a stand in the corner of the dining-room.

“Hello” said Mac. Then abruptly he spoke in Hindustani:

“No, nothing new, Sir Fandi. You will not be out tonight? Yes, he is here.”

Mac turned with a lift of his brows to Kilgore. The latter rose. At this I put out my hand.

“One minute, Kilgore. I'd better say that I understand the tongue.”

Kilgore gave me a half-smile and a glance from his blue eyes, then nodded and went to the instrument. Whether because of my warning or not, he said scarcely a word, but listened to some message from the other end.

McAuliffe came back to the table, gave me two or three glances, then picked up a spoon and began tracing lines on the cloth. Now the lights were overhead. As he sat, he caught the shadowed lines of the figure I had traced. My first intimation of this was when he caught his breath and half-sprang out of his chair. Next thing I knew, he was holding down a gun on me, anger blazing in his face.

“Kilgore!” His voice bit out as the Canadian hung up and turned. “Look here—there's the devil to pay. This chap——”

He pointed to the figure on the linen. Kilgore looked at it, then came around to his chair, dropped into it, and his eyes glinted on me like a blue sword. I took a cigaret and lighted it.

“You chaps,” I said, “are either stark crazy, or else—I don't know what! If you want a row, I'll give it to you. If not, cut out the comedy and bring on the tea.”

Kilgore looked at McAuliffe. “Don't be a silly ass, Mac. Put up the gun.”

“But there it is—the sign of the ten——”

“Put up the gun.”

McAuliffe shoved the automatic into his pocket, swore and sat down.

“Mr. Day,” said Kilgore, picking his words, “did you draw that figure on the cloth with any purpose?”

“No,” I said bluntly. “What does it mean?”

“It's a Mongolian word, and it means 'ten'.” Kilgore looked at his pal. “Mac, get the tea like a good fellow.”

Redhead rose and obeyed. Kilgore must have had quite a turn, for from his first glimpse of that Mongol word his face had looked stern and set. I said nothing and waited until the tea was poured. Then Kilgore, stirring his cup, took up the gauntlet.

“Would you mind telling us, Day, how you happened to draw that figure?”

He was very courteous, but there was steel in his words.

“Not a bit,” I answered. “It was scratched on the handle of Death's knife——”

Mac dropped an oath and sat back in his chair, his face white. Kilgore started.

“Death's knife!” he repeated. “Death's knife!”

Under those blue eyes I realized that I was closer to death this moment than ever I had been in my own house. I knew Kilgore's sort, and knew that something queer was afoot.

“Easy, you two!” I warned them. “This stuff is all Greek to me. This chap Death was one of the lodgers at the other house——”

I told them the whole story as I knew it. And, while I talked, Kilgore sat and watched me with those piercing eyes of his, unmoved and calm; but McAuliffe was gripping the table-edge, and if ever there was murderous hate in a man's face, it sat in his. Not hatred for me, I realized.

“What room in your house did this man occupy?” asked Kilgore, when I was through.

“The back room on the right-hand side.”

“Ah! And the window overlooks this bungalow?”

I nodded. This question gave me the clue, the connection between these two men and the man James Death. Kilgore looked at McAuliffe and Mac at him; between them passed a wordless message.

“Looks like a cursed queer name, that,” I said reflectively. “I can't imagine any sane American or Englishman using it.”

A twisted smile curved Kilgore's thin, aristocratic lips.

“The man is not an Anglo-Saxon,” he answered. “He chose the name in some ignorance of our ethnic customs, I fancy. Day, you've done us a tremendous favor with this information of yours. From the moment you told us that you understood Hindustani, I knew you were all right. I regret that, just at present, we're not able to make explanations to you, but we are not the only persons involved, We have a friend——”

“No harm,” growled McAuliffe, “in warning him.”

“Righto,” assented Kilgore. “This man who calls himself James Death, was at one time an associate of ours in another country, Day. He left us there for dead. I'd strongly advise you to mind your step if you have any dealings with him. You understand?”

I nodded and came to my feet.

“All right, gentlemen; thanks for the warning. Don't worry about the explanations. I have no desire to pry into your affairs whatever. Perhaps you'd like to know whether the fellow comes back to get his trunk?”

McAuliffe grunted. Kilgore gave me a thin, thin smile.

“We'll know, thanks.” Those three words were enough to show me that Mr. Death was in for a bad quarter of an hour if he ever ventured into this neighborhood—now!

I took my departure, Kilgore showing me out. My house was quite dark; not a light to show that Death or any one else was there. As I left the bungalow, I heard the voice of McAuliffe raised excitedly in Hindustani at the telephone.

“That you, Fandi Singh? Get here as quick as you can. Death has been watching us.”

I shivered as I walked over the grassy sand toward my own house. There was something ominous in such words, something suggestive of the double entendre of that name, Death. But I was glad that I had met Kilgore and Mac. They were real men.

III

IF I took the darkness of my house for surety that James Death had not returned, I was reckoning without my guest. However....

I stumbled over the grassy, weedy sand-lots toward home. A heavy fog had swept in and had brought darkness with it, through which rolled the boom of the surf from the beach.

This was a rum affair, and no mistake. Kilgore and McAuliffe were linked to a third man, a man named Sir Fandi Singh—from the name either a Sikh or a Rajput of India. Other links bound them to James Death and a link had caught me into the affair. Kilgore had said that Death was not an Anglo-Saxon; what, then, could he be? Did the Mongolian character for “ten” have any bearing here? And again, what experiments were Kilgore and Mac carrying on in the bungalow or garage?

Somewhere, something sniffed big of world-trails and high emprise.

I missed my way in the obscurity, failed of the back entrance and went ahead to the front of my house. At the top of the porch stairs I struck something and went a-sprawl, cursing the obstruction. Without waiting to see what it was, I picked myself up, opened the front door and switched on the lights.

In front of the door lay the paints and painting-materials I had ordered that day. I carried them into the house and considered what was next to be done. All told, I had not been absent over an hour or so. The evening lay before me, and being of an energetic turn of mind, I determined to fall to work at my redecorating without further delay.

The kitchen was the immediate base of operations. This required fresh white paint from truck to keelson; after the paint dried, new linoleum could be laid. Three hours of steady work ought to eliminate the kitchen from further calculation. With this in mind I laid aside coat and collar, got out my brushes and picked up a can-opener to attack a can of white enamel.

I had set the opener to the tin and was about to puncture it, when a sound halted me.

A sound? More like a shock. You try dropping a hundred-pound sack of wheat on an upper floor of an empty house and you will get some idea of how hard a man's body falls when it does fall. There was no mistaking that soft, heavy thud which fairly shook the house. Some one was up-stairs. Then came the distinct slam of a door—and silence.

For all my listening, there came no further sound—not a footstep, not the creak of a board. Abandoning my operations, I went out to the front hall, then at the foot of the stairs halted. Instead of going up, I went to the door and looked outside. The trunk belonging to James Death had disappeared. I had given it no thought when entering the house.

“Who the devil's up-stairs?”

With this query in my mind I switched on the upper hall lights and ascended. The dead silence of the house puzzled me. It was that intense silence which only comes upon a house in which no soul is moving, even breathing.

The upper hall was empty. I stood there staring about. In the silence I could have sworn that no living person was in the house.

“Anybody here?” I called. Only the echo of my own voice responded and I swore at the silence. I looked into one or two rooms—deserted and empty. It occurred to me that some of my ousted tenants might be trying some sort of revenge for the ousting. I had been gone since before noon. All the afternoon the house had stood deserted. Upon my return I had not even gone up-stairs. One or a dozen persons might be in hiding here.

That there was no one down-stairs I was certain. I went to the door that led up to the attic. It was locked, as I had left it, but I had certainly heard a door slam up here somewhere. That narrowed down the matter to a definite basis. I looked at the doors opening on the hall, and three of them were closed.

The first two opened upon empty rooms. Then I turned to the third and realized that it was my own room, the room occupied by James Death. Upon the instant I felt convinced that here lay the answer to the question; that when I opened this door, I would find something strange and sinister.

And I hesitated at the door, for my pistol lay up-stairs in my grip. Then I knocked but had no answer. Angered by my own weakness, I twisted the knob and flung open the door, at the same instant keeping back. That morning's escape had taught me a lesson. The room showed only blackness, for the hall light did not reach it. I stepped inside, felt for the switch and lighted the room.

For perhaps three minutes I stood there, absolutely motionless, trying to figure out what had happened here.

Near the window which overlooked the bungalow, James Death's trunk was standing open. Therefore, Death had returned, found no one about and, being ignorant of my return, had calmly brought his trunk back to his room. Also, he had replaced the knife over the door.

At my feet lay the body of a man, face down. He had entered the room with head down, hastily and furtively. The knife had caught him at the juncture of neck and shoulder; must have killed him instantly. He had fallen forward, probably had grasped at the door and caused it to slam behind him.

“No!” I muttered. “That door slammed after the man had fallen and he could not have done it himself by any possibility.”

Then I looked again at the position of the knife, which was driven in clear to the haft. With this, all my reasoning showed wrong. The man could not have been killed from above. The knife had been slid into him as he looked into the room. The murderer had then let him fall forward, and slammed the door, and....

At this point in my reflections I glanced hastily over my shoulder and closed the door behind me. The murderer was in the house and I preferred to have an inch of wood at my back,

FORTUNATELY my Paisley father bequeathed me an excellent cool head in emergencies; it was apt to be hot at other times. Whoever had done this deed knew that I was in the house and alone. The size of the body on the floor was very large, as large as my own. Therefore, this was not James Death, as evidently James Death had done the work himself. What, then, would come next on his program?

“This chap is no fool,” I told myself. “If he could get the police in a hurry, the chances are about even that I would be convicted of this murder on circumstantial evidence. A grand little plot for a detective story! Only things don't always work out that way in real life. If I'm right, the gentleman will be out of the house by now.”

I turned, leaving the lights going, and went out into the hall. Sure enough, I felt a breath of cold salt air the first thing. A window had been opened since I stepped into that room.

I knew what window was open, instantly. Often enough I had used it myself, when I had wanted to slip out of the house unheard, as a boy. Without hesitation I went to the adjoining room, turned on the light and found the window open. Directly under this window was the roof of the back porch with an easy descent to the ground. Not being a fool, I did not go near the window but turned off the light again and halted in the hall.

“The gentleman is gone,” I reflected, cursing my own thick-headed folly in having missed him. “It looks to meas if my one best bet were to call in Kilgore and his friends. This seems to be more of their funeral than mine.”

At this moment the front door-bell rang, shrilling through the house with a suddenness that startled me.

The police—already? Impossible. Death had been gone only a few moments at best; he could not have set them on my trail yet, even if my conjectures as to his course of action were correct. Perhaps the fellow had the effrontery to slide out the back window, then come around to the front door and—but no; he had a pass-key. This, more likely, was a visit from some other lodger who had forgotten some effects.

I went down the stairs, prepared for anything.

The front doors were heavily curtained, so that not until I had opened them did I see who was outside. Then, with an exclamation of relief, I greeted Kilgore and McAuliffe. With them was a third—a dark man, bearded, his face proud and keen. I knew who this was even before Kilgore's introduction.

“Mr. Day, I'd like to introduce my friend Sir Fandi Singh—a Rajput.”

“Delighted,” I said, meeting a firm hand-grip. “But come inside; don't stand out here! You met no one?”

Kilgore's brows lifted. “No. Why?”

“The devil to pay and no pitch hot!” I slammed the front door. “I was just deciding to run over and see you gentlemen. What fetched you if I may ask?”

“We had decided to give you a little more information,” and Kilgore smiled.

“Aye,” said Mac heartily. “We liked the hook o' your neb, Mr. Day. And when Sir Fandi said aye to it, we came along.”

“Well, you came at the right moment,” Į responded. “There's been——”

The shrill whang of a bell cut me short. The telephone stood by us in this lower hall and I moved toward it with a premonition of the message.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Park 1199?” asked a voice.

“Yes.”

“Police headquarters speaking, Ingleside station. Anything wrong there?”

“Nothing wrong here,” I responded. “Why?”

“We just had a message that there had been a murder out your way. Know anything about it?”

“Murder? Certainly not. This is Mr. Day speaking. I've been here with three of my friends for a couple of hours. No one sent any message from here.”

The sergeant swore slightly.

“We had a 'phone half a minute ago. It sounded fishy——”

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “I threw out a couple of bum lodgers here today. I expect one of them is trying to make a little trouble. But send out a man, sergeant, if you like, and take a look around.”

“We've no men to spare on no-name information like this,” snapped the sergeant. “Sorry we troubled you, Mr. Day. Good night.”

Hanging up, I looked around to see all three visitors looking fixedly at me.

“Well,” I said cheerfully, “somebody has to get his hands dirty tonight, that's sure. Regular old nickel-novel stuff, too. One goes ahead with the spade, two come along with the corpse, and the fourth acts as covering and protecting convoy.”

The Rajput's white teeth flashed.

“I gather,” he observed, “that you have had some excitement over here?”

“Not me,” I answered, and chuckled. “Somebody else had the excitement. He got your friend Death's knife in the back of his neck, and he's up-stairs now. I figured that Death would make this kind of a play, so when the police called up——”

Kilgore's blue eyes flashed.

“We'll get on, Day, we'll get on!” he said, and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Then let's move up-stairs,” I said. “We can't take chances on that desk sergeant, and we want no police in this business, I fancy.”

“Right,” said Kilgore, cool as a cucumber. “So it's murder, eh? A stranger?”

“I haven't inspected him” was my response. “Maybe you'll know him, though.”

They followed me in silence.

IV

THE four of us stood in my room, with lights on and blinds down, and surveyed things. McAuliffe looked calm enough, but blazed with excitement under the surface. Sir Fandi Singh sat down on the bed and lighted a cigaret, saying nothing but watching us sharply. Kilgore and I turned over the body.

“And that's the end o' Hat Shui, puir deil!” said McAuliffe.

“You know him?” I asked.

“We have met him,” said Kilgore dryly. No other explanation.

I studied the dead man. He was built very large, wore clothes of cheap quality, and held, or had held, a revolver in his hand. Rigor mortis, contrary to the belief of some folks, is slow in its action, starts in at the throat and goes downward. So the revolver had fallen from Hat Shui's hand.

The features of the man were peculiar. They were not Chinese, yet were somewhat tawny. The long mustache and tuft of beard had been gilded; quite freshly, too. I have seen some strange things, but this was the first time I had ever heard of a man gilding his whiskers. When I said as much, Kilgore smiled and Mac chuckled.

“Mair than likely,” said the redhead, “ye'll learn ither strange things, friend Day! Hae ye searched him?”

At this suggestion Kilgore and I went through the chap. Buckled under his sleeve was a knife, twin brother to that knife of Death's which had killed him. Otherwise, he seemed to have nothing in his pockets, until Kilgore drew out his hand and showed a small roll of bills. Among the bills, flashing like drops of frozen blood, were half a dozen small rubies.

Small? Well, size is of no great moment. These stones were not large, but they were of the richest pigeon-blood hue. The sight of them held me astonished, but I was more astonished by the behavior of my companions.

Kilgore poked at them with one finger, almost contemptuously. McAuliffe looked at them and nodded to himself carelessly. Sir Fandi Singh gave them only a glance, then rose and crossed the room to deposit his cigaret-ashes somewhere. Kilgore dropped the money and rubies into my hand.

“Take 'em, Day. We don't need 'em; your share of the loot.”

No man has to tell me such a thing twice, and I pocketed the stones. Now it was that Sir Fandi Singh spoke up. He had an incisive manner of speech, deadly serious, and he had been figuring things out in his mind all the while, evidently.

“Everything is very plain,” he observed, with a sweep of his hand about the room. “While Mr. Day was away this afternoon, Death returned home. He found every one gone. Seeing his trunk outside, he brought it back to the room——”

“That must have been tonight, while I was over at the bungalow talking to you chaps,” I struck in. “The trunk was outside the house when I got home about five.”

Fandi Singh nodded and went on with his inexorable logic:

“There was no one to explain to Death, and perhaps he thought that we had discovered his presence. He began to watch us. Beyond a doubt—” and here the Rajput's tone became grave—“he has had the bungalow under observation for some time. He has been watching your tests, Kilgore.”

The tall Canuck nodded. That James Death had been doing some watching was clear. His open trunk showed only a mass of dirty linen. On the table beside it, the table at the window, was set up a little rack that held a pair of prismatic binoculars. With such glasses Death could have seen every detail of what was doing at the bungalow or garage.

“He was seeking some way to strike,” commented Kilgore.

“Exactly,” assented Fandi Singh. “And he knew that we were making ready to return to the Ten Dromedaries some day. While he was watching, he saw Mr. Day go to the bungalow and probably guessed at the entente being established. He promptly checked off Day as an enemy. At this moment something distracted his attention and he left the room——”

“The painting-materials!” I interjected. “I had ordered some; they arrived while I was at the bungalow and were left at the front door.”

Fandi Singh nodded and went on with his inexorable logic:

“Very good. Death left the room at the ring of the bell but did not open the front door. While he was gone he probably got some warning that Hat Shui was in the house; he concealed himself, followed the Mongol, and as Hat Shui entered the room, stabbed the priest in the neck. We know the rest.”

“So Hat Shui was a priest, and a Mongol!” I exclaimed. “Was he a friend of yours?”

They all looked at me with varying degrees of amusement in their faces.

“Not exactly,” returned Kilgore. “Hat Shui came to kill James Death—had been following him for a year or more.'

“Do Mongols gild their whiskers?” I struck in.

“That was for the benefit of James Death,” answered Fandi Singh. “It was to apprize him that Hat Shui, an emissary of the Ten——”

“See here,” intervened Kilgore quickly, “we'll never get anywhere like this! I say, Day, we've concluded to give you the whole story. We'd better start in at the right end and go through with it. I suppose you've never been in the Gobi desert?”

“You suppose wrong,” I returned, with a grin at their startled interest.

“Aye?” said Mac, rubbing his chin. “And ye'll ken the romance and the butterflies and things that the writer-chaps tell aboot?” He eyed me with a wary look as he spoke.

“The butterflies are there,” I grunted. “I've treated men who saw 'em—aromatic spirits of ammonia is the remedy. Romance? I don't see any romance in riding with your guts gritty all day and sleeping with your head in a leather bag so you won't wake up dead. Nix on the romance! I went there on business. And if I'm forgiven previous sin, I'll never sin again.”

They laughed at this. Kilgore was about to speak, when I held up my hand.

“Gentlemen, I like you fine, and I'd like to hear the story; but I'll confess that I'm a wee bit nervous at the present moment. Your friend Death is at liberty, and he's a swift actor. I suggest that we put Mr. Hat Shui out of sight before we do any more talking.”

“Oh, aye!” assented McAuliffe promptly. “I misdoot me——”

“Righto,” said Kilgore, leaning over. “Catch hold!”

He had the body by the feet, and I caught hold of the shoulders. We carried the corpse out into the hall and down the front stairs to the lower hall, and so into the kitchen and the rear porch. There we paused.

If you remember, I was in my shirt sleeves. Snuggling Hat Shui's head up against my breast made it inevitable that I should get quite a bit of blood over my shirt and arms. This recalled to me that there must be a mess up-stairs.

“Let him wait here a bit,” I said. “If you gentlemen will scout around, I expect you'll find a spade or something in the vicinity. My mother was always trying her best to raise some radishes in the back-yard, so there must be implements. I'll run up-stairs and clean up the floor—keep things straight as we go.”

I SLIPPED up-stairs the back way. It was no lie about being nervous. With all these things happening, and that suit-case full of gold in the attic, my nerves were on edge. I went straight to the attic room and dumped all the gold into a little old trunk of my mother's, locked it, and then came down to my own room again.

Within five minutes I was getting the floor cleared up with a wet towel. Naturally this work did not improve the condition of the towel, or of me either. To get rid of the rag temporarily, I went to the open trunk and tossed it in with the unclean linen.

A little box, in the corner of the trunk, caught my eye. I was thinking of the rubies, and it occurred to me that here might be a cache of stones; anything was likely, with this sort of crowd. Į stooped over and took up the box, which looked like a large pill-box. One sniff of it told me the story, however, and when I opened it I was rather disgusted to find it filled with opium-pellets.

This gave me another line on my lodger—an opium-eater. Where he could get the stuff was a mystery, for in this country it's hardly made any more except as smoking-gum. I slid the box into my pocket and went down-stairs.

My three friends were standing over Hat Shui, whom they had brought back into the kitchen.

“I say, Day!” spoke up Kilgore. “There's not a sign of a spade around here!”

“All right,” I returned cheerfully. “There must be something to dig with. If not, use the two knives——”

At this instant the door-bell rang. It was a long, hard ring, as from a hand that did not intend to be kept waiting all night. I must have started, for McAuliffe grinned wickedly. This made me angry.

“Beat it outside!” I motioned to the back door and caught up my coat.

“Lay hold, Mac.” Kilgore stepped above the body. “We'll get it out on the rear steps.”

I nodded. “Good enough. That's the best we can do.”

Shutting the kitchen door behind me, I passed through the hall. If that confounded Death had really managed to get the police on the trail, they would insist on looking around. Then I came to a halt as the voice of Fandi Singh floated after me.

“Day! If anything goes wrong—I've a car on the street behind, near the bungalow.”

“Thanks,” I returned, and went on, buttoning up my coat tightly. At the front door my worst fears were realized.

I opened the door to confront two gentlemen whose hard-jawed features and general air bespoke the plain-clothes man. None the less, they were polite enough.

“Mr. Day?”

I admitted the fact.

“We're from the Ingleside station—the sarge called you up a little while ago?”

“About the murder?” I forced a smile. “But he said——

“Yep. Right afterward that no-name guy called up again. Said we'd find a Chink's body in a room on the upper floor, gave us the location and all. Say, what's all this about?”

I opened the door wider to admit them if they so desired.

“Well, I chucked out a couple of lodgers today and I imagine they're trying to make a bit of trouble. Want to look over the place?”

The first detective glanced at his partner, who nodded.

“If you don't mind, yes. Just to make sure it's a fake, you know—”

“Come along, then; the house is yours, gentlemen.”

I flatter myself that my manner deceived them completely. They entered and I led the way up-stairs. It was plain that this accursed James Death had done his work thoroughly, for at the head of the stairs they went directly to my own room and stood in the doorway after turning on the lights.

“Looks like a hophead's yarn, eh?” said one, and entered the room.

Then I went cold—I remembered that confounded towel! Is there anything in telepathy? I can't say. But I do know that this plain-clothes man went right cross the room and took one look at the trunk.

The thing occurred so quickly that I was taken off guard, swept from my feet. The second man, beside me, must have caught some unuttered warning from the bearing of his companion; at all events, he simply turned and grabbed me by the coat before the first man had even uttered a word. Naturally I pulled away. My coat buttons went one-two-three and there I was, in all the glory of my bloody shirt.

All I heard was one startled oath, as I slammed the door and went out of the house the same way James Death had gone.

V

STRANGERS in the house, the two detectives had no chance of getting me. They did not even know which way I had gone. I slid off the back-porch roof and streaked it across the sand-lots, while the house behind me began to blaze with lights and to sound with excited voices.

I headed for the bungalow. Just before I reached its street, a number of figures showed in the fog ahead, and I heard Kilgore's voice.

“Day? What's up?”

“Bungled it,” I returned. “—— it all! They'll find the body and go after me. Too bad we couldn't have hidden it.”

“We did it,” said Kilgore calmly. “At least, we're on our way to the beach with it. You run along with Fandi Singh. No time to lose, now! Good luck. See you later.”

There were men for you—the right sort, the real sort! It was none of their funeral, but they had made it so, quite literally. I followed Fandi Singh to a big car, and in two minutes we were heading away from there without lights.

“Where will you go?” said the Rajput, after we were two blocks away and he had switched on his lights.

“Anywhere down-town. How'll I get in touch with you later?”

He handed me a card and I put it into my pocket. Then he reached back into the tonneau and shoved a big rain-coat into my lap. That man never wasted words. He needed no explanation. He had a brain.

As for me, I lay back and enjoyed the silence as we swept over the Twin Peaks Boulevard.

It was, you will say, a strange thing for an innocent man to flee in this way. If you knew as much of the world as I do, you'd never take a chance; anyway, I wouldn't. Since Kilgore would get rid of the corpus delicti in the surf or under the sand, the chances were good that I would never be looked up for murder.

However, I would be looked up, and if they found me, I would be locked up. That was certain. The whole affair would seem cursed queer to the police, and rightly so. They would trail me and look around for a corpse, you bet. And the papers would be full of theories, and my poor mother would have heart-failure up there in the mountains when she read them. If, on the other hand, they failed to apprehend me, they would certainly not mention the fact to the newspaper lads at all. They would look for me, right enough, but unless Hat Shui shoved a leg out of the sand to attract attention, they could prove no crime. Blood proves nothing. You can kill a man before a crowd of witnesses, but if you can make the body vanish into thin air, you're safe.

Why then did I run for it? Merely because I saw no sense in spending a week butting against police-brains and feeding lies to newspaper men, not to mention how the news-sheets might hurt my mother's feelings. Besides, there was no warranty that Hat Shui would not show up again.

“Let me out at California and Sutter,” I told Sir Fandi. He nodded and turned into Haight Street. Never a word out of him.

I noted that the car was expensive, most expensive. And as Fandi Singh's hands lay on the steering-wheel, the passing lights gleamed on some remarkably fine jewels which adorned his fingers; jewels worth a small fortune. He may have noticed my glance, for now he took a pair of driving-gloves from beneath him and slipped them on. Then he spoke.

“Do you believe in telepathy?” he asked.

To me came the thought of that cursed detective, and I chuckled.

“Now and then. Why?”

“Hat Shui belonged to the finest organization of mental workers in the world.”

“Ah! Theosophists?”

“No. The priests of the Ten Dromedaries.”

We dodged a street-car. This was the second time I had heard my friends use this name, and it wakened some old memories in my brain.

“Look here,” I said, “all that is a myth, a bit of Mongolian folk-lore! I heard all about the Ten Dromedaries place. It doesn't exist.”

Fandi Singh chuckled. “Keep thinking that,” he advised. “Don't let your mind work on what's happened. James Death used to belong to the organization also, and if he picks up your mental thought-waves, he'll be apt to give you away to the police. I'm warning you. Watch your mind.”

Had any one else uttered such a warning, I would have sniffed in scorn. But these words from the grave Rajput startled me. His chuckle was sinister. Then I recalled the dagger with its Mongol character and I kept silence. Before this, I've found that the impossible frequently does exist and usually at the wrong time.

Sir Fandi Singh said no more until he halted the car at the corner I had designated. Then he made a brief remark.

“Our best chance,” he said, “is that James Death is so rotten with opium that his brain will be sodden without it. He was one of the priests. Turned traitor to them—that's why Hat Shui was after him. They never fail to get their man. Well, good luck! Au revoir.”

I bade him good night, and he sped away.

The evening was still early. I walked along California Street, the rain-coat buttoned to the throat to conceal my collarless condition, and turned into one of those hand-me-down shops that keep open for the hophead and Chinese night-trade. Having plenty of money, I bought a complete outfit from hat to shoes, then retraced my steps to one of the modest but good hotels in the neighborhood and engaged a room.

Five minutes later I was at peace with the world and indulging in a good cigar.

Privacy! It tasted fine after the lurid events of this day and evening. So far as any danger from the police was concerned, I never bothered my head on this score—not for a minute. Of course, two of them had my face in their minds, and the whole crowd would get a perfect description of me, but they would never know me again. I had no distinctive marks.

Dress in an entirely different manner. Take charcoal from a burnt match, mix with water and apply the result beneath your lip and around your eyes, and so on. Then buy a pair of these big black horn spectacles and get a close haircut. If you do the job right, you could fool your own brother. So, as I say, I had no fear of the dicks. It was a good gamble, and the betting favored me at large odds.

Dismissing this from my mind, the next thing was to take stock. I had plenty of money of my own, and the roll of bills taken from Hat Shui was in my pocket—five hundred in that. Then, the rubies, six of the little beauties. After these, the box of opium-pellets from Death's trunk. My own automatic pistol. The card which Sir Fandi Singh had given me:

Take a bench in Union Square, near the women's reserved section on the St. Francis side of the park, between twelve and one tomorrow.

When had the Rajput scribbled this penciled instruction? Not after getting into the car, certainly. Then he must have written it immediately after I had left the three friends in the kitchen, immediately after calling to me that he had a car waiting.

“Gad, but you're a cool outfit!” I reflected admiringly. “You don't take chances. You prepare for every emergency and you act like a whip-crack. I've missed something not knowing you three chaps before. And the way Kilgore was toting that corpse out of sight, too! No lack of money.”

What were they experimenting with, and why had James Death been watching them? To this, no answer.

To obey that final warning from Sir Fandi Singh, was a difficult matter.

In the Gobi? Well, I had been along the fringes of it, and naturally I had heard the stories about the temple of the Ten Dromedaries. Naturally, too, I had discounted the tales as every sensible man does, particularly if he has a drop of canny Scotch blood in his veins.

It sounded too dashed romantic, and well I knew the lack of romance in that accursed region, where every man carries his leather head-bag and the poor devils of camels will wear out a set of stout shoes in a week. No two people go into the Gobi and come out with the same story—and right. No two sections of it are alike. The buried cities are there; I've seen them. The gravel and bare rock is there. The sand is there. But romance? No, no! A good shaggy Bactrian will outstink anything on earth except another Bactrian, and where two or three of these are gathered together, I defy any sane man to find romance.

If the temple of the Ten Dromedaries did exist and the priests did exist and all the rest of it, I knew that I had better respect the warning and think about other things. So, when my cigar was finished, I shoved the whole affair out of my mind and rolled into bed.

UPON waking up in the morning it was to find myself a new man, or, rather the old Craig Day again. The temple of the Ten Dromedaries, ten priests, ten novices, ten virgins and all the rest of the farrago, flashed into my head and I broke out laughing in the midst of my bath. To think of a filthy old yellow devil, a slant-eyed Mongolian, an ignorant worshiper of images, squatting down in the sand and pulling off mental stunts that would make the combined heads of the Royal Societies go swimming!

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed cheerfully to my new shirt. “Nonsense! Craig, you've become your own sensible, sonsy self again. I must have been worked up to a nervous edge last night, and no mistake.”

Cheerful? Mightily so. The stimulus of my present situation was a tonic. Not dangerous, in the least; but enough out of ordinary civilized ruts to be interesting tonic. When I was all rigged out in my new togs, I set about getting the proper shadows on my face, then went forth into the big city.

Breakfast, then a haircut, then a spectacle-shop. These three enterprises kept me at work until nine, for I am an early riser. Slightly after nine I came sauntering into the park that lies in the heart of San Francisco, a big man with a big hat, big black specs perched on his big nose, and a big cigar to keep him company.

There were plenty of bums, time-killers and loafers occupying the benches. I caught one chap raiding a scrap-paper bin for a morning newspaper, and since he was a decent old fellow I gave him ten dollars and sent him out to my house to attend to the carpeting, painting and other details. This in itself is enough to show the mood I was in. Any fool would have known that he would give the police a description of me and that he might steal half the stuff in the place. But I cared nothing for such trifles.

I went over to the St. Francis and got a morning paper. A glance over it told me that there was no mention of any “Mysterious Mongolian Murder,” so I started back across the street. Just in time, too. There was a poor chap with a stick—a shrunken little old man—who was engaged in a mixup with a cable-car and a taxicab; he didn't know which way to jump first, and the brute of a taxi-driver was bearing down on him with a grin

Naturally impulsive, I rescued the old chap from the cable-car and planted myself, with him under my arm, in front of the taxicab. There was a grind of brakes, and the taxi-driver backed water in a hurry. I carried the old chap across the street and set him down at the park path.

Then I perceived that he was pretty well gone to pieces. He leaned on his stick, mumbling at a great rate, and his eyes darting around, One glance at his face told me that he was an opium-fiend. I would have left him then and there, except that he made a grab at my arm.

“Help me!” he said. “Help me along to a bench. I'll tell you all about it.”

“About what?” I said whimsically. He chattered for a moment, then answered me.

“All of it, all of it!” he exclaimed, gripping at my arm. “Hat Shui and all of it! Only get me a pill; you never heard such a story! Get me a pill and I'll tell you.”

My jaw dropped.. Then my hand dropped likewise—to the pocket in which lay James Death's box of opium-pellets.

VI

I'VE read stories about the Gobi which made me want to shoot the writer, and I've also read stories where somebody takes a pipe or a pill of hop and promptly goes to sleep. You ought to hear how those boys get the laugh. I'll defy anybody to produce anybody else who can take opium and go to sleep from the opium. It simply doesn't act that way. It bucks up the brain instead of lulling it.

Well, to get back to the old chap who had mentioned Hat Shui. I guided him to a vacant bench, of which there were plenty in the shade, and we seated ourselves. He was a decently dressed fellow, and except for the peculiar hophead complexion might have passed muster. Now, however, his nerves were flying wild and loose. I was afraid a policeman might come along and take him in as a suspect, so I fished in my pocket until I got one of the opium-pellets. Then I got my knife, cut the pellet in two and showed it to the old chap.

“Half for you now,” I said, and gave it to him. “More later—when you have told me about Hat Shui. Who was he?”

He popped the pill into his mouth and surveyed me with bleary, bloodshot eyes. Except for his clothes, he looked like any broken-down old wreck who panhandles you for a dime. I really thought he had come across the name in a paper perhaps.

“Hat Shui?” he murmured vacantly. “Yes, yes! I'll tell you for more of it. He was one of the Ten, and he had formerly been the novice who arranged in Urga for the girls; you understand! He knew the outside world. One of them always did. It was he who bought me to join them, bought me with fifty thousand rubles, because I knew about guns. So I went, and then they would not let me go again. Then Kilgore came and we fought about the Russian girl, and when Kilgore beat me I did my best to betray him to Hat Shui——”

He trailed off into a confused babbling in a tongue that seemed to be Russian. But I sat there, a cold hand at the back of my soul. This man could be no other, was no other, than James Death!

Looking at him, I could not believe it possible. Those shaking fingers had not the force needful to drive home a knife. The face was that of a babbling fool. Yet—yet if this man were given opium and his brain lashed into action and all his vital forces stimulated——

“What's your name?” I demanded.

My voice must have frightened him. He rose and stood trembling.

“Be careful!” I went on, shaking the opium-box in my pocket. “Here's more hop, old man. Here's a full box of it, and I'll give it all to you later on. All of it! Sit down and tell me things, and I'll give it all to you. Whats your name?

He was down again. No hophead could have resisted that lure.

“Death,” he mumbled, his eyes darting all around. “James Death. But that isn't my name at all. I am a Russian, a gentleman, an engineer and a rich man! I will tell you how the Ten get their jewels, shall I? But give me more——”

“Nothing doing,” I said, shoving away his hand. Already I was fearful lest the tiny bit I had given him should start his brain working normally. “Tell me, first.”

“All right. Everything they do is done by telepathy. Once a month the novices bring in the camels with the supplies and the ten fresh girls from Urga. They must be paid for. On the tenth day—everything goes by tens—comes a message from the Unseen One. They go out to the lake.

He babbled for a moment in his strange tongue. I sat there, absolutely astounded by what I was hearing. Then I recollected that the man might be lying. He might be repeating the wild legends which I had heard often.

“What lake?” I asked craftily. “The round lake where cliffs go down straight?”

He rose to the bait nobly, while his red-rimmed eyes shifted from side to side.

“No, no! The lake where they have purple mists with the odor of violets, which put men to sleep. The Ten go to sleep there. When they waken, they find the fishes singing to the dawn, and on the shore the jewels and gold. Give me more, more!”

I was so utterly taken aback that I gave him the other half-pellet.

Good Lord! This man was actually improving on the wild legend—singing fishes! That was something new.

“Fishes can't sing,” I said. “It's impossible.”

“They do. I've heard them,” he mumbled away. “Kilgore is a scientist. He said that they have an arrangement of the gills that makes sound in the air. They leap from the water and sing. They are a distinct race. So are the men there, the Ten; they come from the tribe in the valley. It is between the Sayan and the Khangais ranges, at the headwaters of the Kem, and the city of whirling sands lies around the temple. I saw a palace come up out of the sand, but it was gone again next morning before Kilgore could explore.”

“And Hat Shui?”

“He came to kill me because I had escaped,” exclaimed Death with more animation. “I had been forced to enter the novitiate, you know, before Kilgore came. So Hat Shui came after me and ran me down. But I was too smart for him, too smart!” The old devil chuckled evilly. “I sent him to hell. And then I got a message from the Ten. They knew he was dead already, ten minutes afterward. They willed me——”

He broke off and said no word more. His eyes had ceased to rove about. This sign gave me some alarm because I knew his brain was at work now; the drug had reached the stomach. How I regretted giving even that tiny pill! Now my time was running short with him.

“Wait here,” I said, seeing no sign of a policeman about. “I'll be back in a minute and give you the whole box of opium-pills. Just a minute.”

He made no sign, but I saw his eyes fastened on me. Was it my imagination that told me there was recognition in those eyes, and the recrudescence of a terrible, dominant spirit? Was it imagination which showed new life flooding back into this old babbler?

I HURRIED away, cursing my folly. I went directly to the street, opposite the St. Francis, and paused at the corner. Looking back, I saw James Death sitting there exactly as I had left him.

Confident that he would not leave, I glanced around. Just across the street was an officer, swinging down toward the hotel. I hurried toward him, caught his eye and beckoned. He met me at the curb.

“Come over here with me,” I commanded. “There's an old hophead sitting on the bench here who's been telling me about a murder he committed the other day. You'd better take him along and see——”

“You bet,” said the policeman. We recrossed the street and started down the path. A stab of dismay seized me. The bench was empty.

I swore and then darted forward at a run. James Death was not in sight. I stopped to question one or two loungers, who had seen nothing of the man. It seemed impossible that Death could have gotten out of there so quickly.

Gone he was, however, and the cop favored me with a fine suspicious scrutiny when we gave up the chase and separated.

How I cursed my folly. All the cards in my hand, and I had played them like an arrant fool!

I dropped on the nearest bench, feeling the ass that I was. James Death had not known me at all, had never guessed that I could be Day. Lack of opium had left him all unstrung, his brain a dazzled whirl of desire, his body a helpless wreck. He was mine for the taking in that moment, mine to bring before a police court; he would have confessed the whole business like a shot.

Instead of doing the obvious thing, I had sat there and chattered about the Ten Dromedaries, carried away by the things he mumbled in my ear. Now, too late, I realized that he had told the truth, and that Kilgore would have told me the same story had he been given time the previous evening.

The truth! I sat up, staring at the greenery with wide eyes. Then this place actually existed—was no figment of the imagination. This Death was a Russian, a man of education. The Ten had bought his services, and once at the lamasery he had been forced into its permanent service. A useful man, as his late actions bore witness. Then Kilgore had come, had found the place of legend. The Russian had fought with him over a girl, had joined him to betray him, had been finally beaten—and had got away. After him had followed Hat Shui, one of the Ten, and Death had struck Hat Shui first.

And I had given this sodden wreck a taste of opium, enough to bring his poor brain back into coherence, enough to send him out with some vestige of himself at work. He would get more opium now, I knew. There was no lack of it around the city, in one form or another, and we could expect that within a few hours James Death would be equipped to work again. He was in telepathic communication with the Ten, for he had admitted as much.

Whither did this tend, anyway? I might laugh at telepathy, but I am no blind fool. I had either to accept or deny the whole story of the Ten Dromedaries, and I could not deny it. The proofs were too obvious. It was not for nothing that theosophy came out of the Gobi. It was not for nothing that Fandi Singh had warned me. It was not for nothing that Asian legends had now become flesh. And I had chucked the whole game in one moment's folly.

Well, the thing was done now, and no use crying over it. With an effort I forced myself to open the paper that was folded in my pocket, and I tried to read it. A fresh cigar between my teeth helped a little.

A good deal of time had elapsed, what with one thing and another, and it was now close upon noon. I read the paper idly, trying to keep my mind on the news-items. Presently I came to the shipping-page and folded the paper back with more interest. The shipping-news is the livest bit in the whole sheet, to my notion.

The China Maru had pulled out that morning for the Orient, and the column was headed with the usual gossipy account of her departure. I was scanning it carelessly, when from the list of more notable passengers rose out a name that hit me square between the eyes, like an electric shock. I goggled at the type dazedly through my new specs.

No doubt about it at all. Among the passengers who had boarded at the last moment was Sir Fandi Singh, G.C.S.I., C.I.E., etc. etc., Rajah of Bhapure, who was engaged upon a world-tour.

I lifted blank eyes and stared at nothing. That Sir Fandi had sailed the wording proved beyond question. He had said nothing of it the previous night. What was the answer? It came to me that there were two answers. First, the Rajput I had met was an arrant fraud, which I dismissed as impossible. Second, he and Kilgore and McAuliffe had skipped out in a hurry and left me to pay the shot; which I dismissed as equally impossible.

While I was thinking over these things in a dazed manner, I was idly aware that a man had come past me, had paused, and then had dropped down on the bench close at hand. For a moment I paid no heed, naturally; I was absorbed in the blow that had just landed, trying to figure something definite from the chaos.

Slowly I felt that a pair of keen eyes were watching me and a brain was centered upon me. The man sitting on the bench! Was it possible that James Death had come back? I turned my head and looked at the man and then I returned my gaze to the paper in my lap.

The man was one of the two detectives from whom I had escaped on the previous night, and he had either recognized me or was on the point of recognition!

VII

I SAT still wisely. A move to get away, and the dick would have grabbed me on suspicion. As yet, he was not certain of his recognition. Was it possible that the old bum I had sent out to my house had given in my description? No; most unlikely. It was much more probably the case that the two detectives who had seen me were now out on a general scour of the city, on the chance of finding me. And this chap had found me, but he wasn't sure of me at all. At this moment of crisis a tall figure striding along the path drew my glance. Kilgore!

I looked up, and my eyes widened for an instant. He caught the warning. How I blessed the man for what he did next! No hesitation, no false moves—but action.

He came to a dead stop before me and his hand shot out. When he spoke, his voice held none of the British accent. It was full of delighted surprize.

“Hello! If it isn't old John Barsley—here of all places! -Why, man, I thought you were plugging away in a Chicago law-office! Why on earth didn't you let me know you were in town?”

“Well, well!” I came to my feet, standing slouched and round-shouldered, and altering my voice as I seized his hand. “Hello, old man. I only got out of the hospital yesterday.”

“Hospital?” he queried. One would have sworn that the quick sympathy was genuine. “Where?”

“Here—the Mount Zion,” I responded. “I came out last week on a case to get evidence—got appendicitis instead. They popped me off the train into the hospital. I just got out yesterday, but I'm still pretty weak. See here, I have rooms at the St. Francis. Come along and have a chat. I've been sunning myself, and——”

“Sure thing!” he exclaimed, eagerly passing his arm through mine. “Good Lord, man, you should have had them call me up.”

We stepped away from there toward Post Street corner. When we were safely out of ear-shot, I gave Kilgore the reason.

“You slick devil, you! See if that chap on the bench is following us. One of the detectives at the house last night.”

I could have sworn that Kilgore did not turn his head, and yet a moment later he made answer.

“He's lookin' after us. Now he's rising.”

“Beat it into the hotel, then,” I responded quickly. “He recognized me but wasn't quite sure. He'll come in to see if any John Barsley is registered.”

“My car's by the Post Street entrance,” said Kilgore. “Cheerio!”

We entered the hotel by the main entrance and a moment later came out the Post Street door. There was Sir Fandi Singh's big car, with red-headed Mac at the helm.

“Pull out!” snapped Kilgore as we climbed into the tonneau. “Quick! Out Sutter, through the park and to the Esplanade.”

The engine hummed and we went away in a hurry. When we were heading out Sutter and were safely away from any pursuit, I broke silence—

“What's this I saw in the paper about Sir Fandi Singh leaving today on the China Maru?”

“He left,” and Kilgore chuckled. “Said nothing of it last night? Just like the beggar! He's gone to make arrangements for us. We've decided to go too, in a couple of weeks or so. We'll meet him in Pekin.”

“Where's Hat Shui?”

“He's put away under three foot o' sand,” spoke up McAuliffe.

I drew a breath of relief. “Good! Then I've nothing to fear. But I've certainly played —— with things this morning, boys. You'll not forgive me——”

“Keep it until we can chin,” said Kilgore. “We need all three heads.”

That was sound enough, so I kept silent.

We droned along to Golden Gate Park, slowed down, and came at last to the far side. To the left we took the upper Esplanade drive, and Mac halted the car at a lonely spot along the ocean-shore. A fine crisp wind was breezing in and the surf booming grandly. Then Mac squared around and lighted a pipe, and we had it out. I told them all about meeting James Death and spared myself nothing.

“No use hunting excuses,” I concluded. “It was a plain case of being a silly fool. Now the devil is at liberty, will be twice as cunning and slippery as before, and his brain will be clear enough to let him find some opium somewhere. “Then—look out!”

“Aye,” said Mac softly. “Oh, aye! You're richt. There's somethin' in that, as the thief said when he pit his haun' in the slop-jar.”

Kilgore said nothing for a moment, but sat looking at the sea, a slight frown to his brows. Then his face cleared and a smile came to his lips as he brought his eyes to mine.

“Don't blame yourself, old chap,” and the accent was on him now. “Little bit of a fluke, what? But no matter; carry on. Don't get the wind up at this stage of the game, old boy. I say, Mac! Is that Scotch in the car?”

“Aye! In the locker.”

“Then suppose we forget the whole affair, Drive down the coast highway and we'll lunch at one of those road-houses, then return to the bungalow. Excellent chance to talk, eh? Quite so.”

“Quite so, ye ruddy Britisher,” returned Mac genially, and turned to his wheel.

“There's nothing to do then at present?” I asked as we started forward.

“Nothing,” said Kilgore. “We must settle with James Death before we can leave, that's all. Never fear. He'll waste no time jumping us!”

WE HEADED south and were soon out of San Francisco. We halted at a roadside tavern, took a bottle of Scotch inside with us and made an excellent luncheon. After a drink or so our tongues loosened up, and between them, Kilgore and McAuliffe gave me the whole story.

Already I had learned enough to let me see through the chinks, but now I got it straight. This odd triumvirate was a result of the war. Mac, who was an American, had gone over with the Canadians and had run foul of Kilgore on the other side. Later they had encountered Sir Fandi Singh, who had brought a contingent of his own, and after peace came, the three of them joined forces.

Kilgore, I gathered, had no lack of money. Sir Fandi was of course rich—most native rajahs are millionaires several times over. McAuliffe was a machinist, while Kilgore was an inventor of sorts. The three had drifted, and finally dropped in for, a visit at the lamasery of the Ten Dromedaries.

They must have had an exciting time of it over there. I shall not detail their story, except as it bears upon the present action. The lamasery, where the priests of the Ten lived, was some distance from the temple and the city of the whirling sands and the lake of legend; the three adventurers had come no closer than the lamasery. This was close enough, however.

Kilgore assured me that legend had not lied. Each month ten virgins were brought from Urga to the lamasery. He told what became of them at the end of the month, but that is another story. There was a Russian girl, and then there was James Death. The Russian girl had been killed and Death had first joined the three, then had betrayed them. At all events, they had managed to get away from the lamasery with whole skins and a sack of loot and nothing more. James Death had got clear also, no doubt with his own loot.

In the course of their association, Death had learned a good deal about the three, who had planned to return to the place in proper style. This brought up the question of why he had followed and spied upon them.

“Reason enough,” said Kilgore. “We've been at work on a new sort of gun, and he wanted to get the details of it. When we get back to the bungalow you'll see for yourself. He knew, of course, that we were going back to the temple.”

“Why?” I questioned. “What sane man would want to go back there?”

Kilgore gave me an eagle-sharp look. All the affected accent fell away from him.

“See here, Day! That place is a plague-sore on the face of the earth. We'll not argue the telepathic part of it; you must accept that as truth, and beware of it. But in a more concrete sense that place is damned. Every month ten girls from Urga—think of it! That's the thing, the whole thing, with us.”

“Not the whole thing,” put in Mac cannily. “Yell ken the hoard o' gowd and jewels that the Unseen One hauds!”

Kilgore brushed this aside with a gesture.

“Never mind. The main thing is that this place is a nest of devils. It's a peculiar race, Day, the mean between Russian and Chinese, Cossack and Mongol. Like the fish in that lake; Death brought me a specimen. A distinct species. Those fellows are beginning to touch the white races with their evil. That Russian girl was a sample. They keep in touch with the world outside; they are well armed and provided, and I've no doubt in the world that at this minute they know we are planning to come back. Don't you make any mistake about the telepathic stuff. It's dangerous.”

“It's no skin off your nose how many girls they hook,” I countered.

“Bah!” Kilgore looked at me, fire in his eyes. “We're men, aren't we? Gentlemen?”

“Not me,” I said, pouring another drink. “I'm no gentlemen, thank Heaven! I'm just plain man. If I was a gentleman, I'd have been dead and overboard years ago——”

Kilgore laughed suddenly, and Mac uttered a cackle.

“Shut up, Day,” snapped the tall one genially. “We understand each other. Well, the three of us are going to put that cursed breed out of business. The Chinese can't do it; they only make a pretense at authority. The lama at Urga—the Hutuktu, you know, who has a government of his own—is probably drawing down a bit of graft from the Ten himself. The Japs are pushing that way, but no sane man out there has any dealings with them.

“And, as Mac says, there is loot to be had. I have a notion that the Unseen One, as he is called, who appears to live at the lake, has a big stock of jewelry on hand and that it comes from some old hoard, If I told you that I thought it might be the tomb of Genghis Khan, you'd only laugh. If I told you who I thought Genghis Khan really was, you'd laugh.”

“Oh,” I put in, “I've heard that yarn, too. About his being a Jap prince.”

Kilgore started, then broke into a laugh.

“Well, let it go. Now, Day, what do you say? Would you like to take a crack at the Ten Dromedaries with us?”

I stiffened with astonishment, until I saw that he really meant it. Mac was watching me, and nodded assent.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” I said promptly, “but please count me out.”

“If I ever sin again,” quoted Mac wickedly, “the Guid Laird——

“I meant it, too,” I shot at him. “I don't want to go back to that accursed Gobi! The smell of a camel nauseates me. I will admit that the loot part of it is an appeal——”

“Well,” Kilgore rose as he spoke, “suppose you go back to the bungalow with us and take a look at the machinery. We'll stick together until James Death is attended to, anyway; then settle affairs.”

“Good enough,” I agreed.

It was nearly three o'clock when we started home. It was four when we sighted the bungalow. My house appeared to be deserted, but I was not going to look and see just yet.

I don't think it occurred to any of us that in this interval of a few hours James Death might have had plenty of opportunity to get opium and plan things.

VIII

MAC ran the car in the drive, off the street toward the garage, and we alighted.

At this instant some realization of the time involved came to me. It was not yet twenty-four hours since I had come to know Kilgore and McAuliffe; only slightly over that since I had been at home. And yet in this one day volumes had happened. At my short laugh the others gave me a glance of inquiry.

“Time,” I explained. “Yesterday I was an honest citizen. Today I'm in your company. Where's the weapon?”

They turned to the garage. Why do I mention this incident? Because I firmly believe Kilgore would have gone into the house except for it. And if he had gone into the house then, things would not have turned out the way they did.

“Did you see Fandi Singh off?” I asked.

Mac was unlocking the garage doors. Kilgore shook his head,

“No chance. He came out here this morning, left the car and taxied to the wharf. Why?”

“I was thinking that since the boat only left this morning, and the paper had been printed during the night, he——”

“Bright boy!” chuckled Kilgore. “Sure. He had passage long ahead.”

“Oh! Then it wasn't yesterday that sent him kiting to China?”

“No. It was day before yesterday—in other words, our plans already made.”

McAuliffe threw open the doors, and we stepped into the garage.

This was a fine roomy place with cement floor and was excellently adapted to its present use as a shop. Money had not been spared to fit it up, either. There was a lathe with a drill beside it, run by electricity, and a good many more tools. Not being much of a mechanic, I can not describe the place in detail.

The main point of interest, to me, was the gun. And with this, I must confess, I fell in love at the first sight.

My initial feeling was one of surprize. The gun was small, and an exclamation broke from me as I picked it up—the thing scarcely weighed fifteen pounds. The length was only a foot and a half.

“Why, this—this is a toy,” I said.

“Think ye so?” McAuliffe chuckled proudly. “It's a verra deadly sort o' toy, then. Let me haver a bittie we' the lady, and I'll guarantee she'll aye speak to some purpose.”

The gun was mounted on a quadrupod, two legs of which, I perceived, had grab-bands for weights of stone or other material. The legs, also, were telescopic, evidently for altitude, one pair being longer to offer a long recoil-base. With the machine lay its case, a stout leather affair twenty inches in length and five square, the shoulder-strap of which served when in action as a Stirrup-strap for the feet of the operator, thus forming a strong resistance to the firing-throb.

Kilgore went over the thing and explained its weight, or rather its lack of weight.

“It's built of a special steel and aluminum alloy. Here, the housing shows how thin it can be, yet I defy you to crack it with a sledge. She's air-cooled.

“She'll need air, all right,” I commented bluntly. “Fifty rounds, and this jigger will be red-hot and blowing up!”

Kilgore laughed.

“Think so? We tried her out two days ago, Day, on the shore. We timed a set-up to first shot and take-down and load. From cargo-pack to first shot was fifty-two seconds, and one minute twenty-five seconds from mounted to cargo again.”

“Oh, there's no denying she's a very handy little thing, except for the heat——”

“And we fired five hundred rounds within the minute. The gun showed less heat than would a rifle after twenty rounds.”

I whistled.

“But where's the hammer to your gun?”

“None. It's fired by electric battery. Now you have the advantage of cheapness, light weight and strength.”

“But you have to carry a battery——”

“It weighs less than a single box of cartridges,” and he touched a battery-case on the work-bench. “Day, don't you think the three of us would be fools to go up against the Gobi and that crowd of priests, with their tributary people, unless we'd tried and perfected this weapon? Of course.

“Fandi Singh has taken the plans with him. He'll arrange to make the Chinese Government a free gift of this weapon, you understand? In return, we have free access to the temple of the Ten Dromedaries and protection for all the loot we bring out. Incidentally we hope to get a good deal of scientific data, ethnic and so forth.”

“Oh!” I said, wrinkling up my brows. “I smell a mouse in this free-gift business, old man! If the Chinese Republic had a few batteries of these guns scattered along the border, the little brown brothers would scarcely bother their sovereignty any more, eh?”

Mac grinned. Kilgore looked a bit confused.

“Oh, I say!” He attempted to protest, coloring a trifle. “You know, Japan is our ally. I mean, Great Britain's ally——”

I had him by this time, however.

“You're a hot conspirator, you are!” I told him cheerfully. “This is where you fall down, old Canuck, you bet! I'm on to the game, all right. Let's see, now. You've got a strong pull with the Chinese Republic, eh? And you're making this gun here in San Francisco, where the Six Companies and the Welfare Societies can keep watch of things and assure no interference from Japanese gentlemen. Oh, this thing brightens up amazingly! Then you go over to China and presently the Republic equips its army with some new weapons, and the next time Japan comes along with a big bluff—blooey! The bluff doesn't work. And Japan finds out why, and backs down. And China gains her own place among nations. And of course Great Britain knows nothing at all about it, nothing at all! But China will be properly grateful.”

Mac broke into a peal of laughter and I was forced to grin a little myself at the confusion of Kilgore.

“Dash it!” he murmured, “I never said anything about that at all!”

“No need,” I returned. “Craig Day can figure out two and two, occasionally! To carry the thing a bit farther, James Death knew something of your plans and kept an eye on you. Why? Not because he was worried about the priests of the Ten Dromedaries—not much! He may be in communication with them, right enough, and probably is by his own account; but he's free of their power and intends to remain free. What's his one best bet, then? Why, simply to line up on this gun and interview one or two Japanese here in the city. Mac, get that bottle out of the car, will you? So much talking makes me dry.”

McAuliffe went out to the car. Kilgore stood in frowning thought, staring down at the weapon. At length he roused.

“Day,” he said slowly, “you're a shrewd man.”

“I've been told so,” was my dry comment. “Well?”

“I shan't affirm or deny what you've just stated. I've had nothing to say in the matter; it is formed entirely of your own conclusions. I will say, leaving my end of it entirely alone, that in your deductions as regards James Death you may have hit upon the truth.”

He was picking his words carefully.

“In fact, if Death went to the Japs with what he knows about this gun, there's no telling where the thing might end.”

“Then you don't admit that Death has been in Jap employ right along?”

“No—” he gave me a sharp look—“I don't. I admit nothing. I do think that he would not turn to the Japs until the last moment, until he was in desperate straits, until he was actually forced into it.”

“Which probably happened this morning?” I queried.

“Exactly.”

Mac came in with the bottle of Scotch in his hand and a doleful expression.

“Hardly one guid dram left,” he mourned. “Not to mention a r-real drink all around!”

“There's another bottle in my trunk,” said Kilgore, smiling at the expression. “Go in and get it, like a good chap. We've reached a point of celebration.”

McAuliffe winked at me and then departed. I understood perfectly well. My deductions had been absolutely correct, but Kilgore would never admit the fact. When Mac was gone, I came back to the topic.

“What do you expect, then?”

“I hardly know.”

He frowned and lighted a cigaret.

“Death is afraid of Japs; he hates them and despises them, like most Russians. I imagine he'd go to them and promise details later, if they'd give him opium. He'd tell enough to get them interested. Then he'd start out alone to get the details.”

“From you?” I laughed scornfully. “Why, the man is a weak old fool! If you'd seen him this morning, you'd have said he was fit for an asylum. Physically and mentally gone.”

“You failed to catch him, didn't you?” said Kilgore dryly. “With opium in him the man is superhuman. I tell you, look out for him! Mac and I know what to expect. We'll wait here and let him come—and finish him. That's our only chance.”

We stood silent for a little. I was impressed by the conviction in Kilgore's manner. He meant his words absolutely.

And now the thing was broadening out. Yesterday it had been a feud. Last night it had become a world-hunt. Today it had developed into an international affair—just like that. If Kilgore got his gun into the hands of the Chinese—I mean the Shanghai government, you understand, and not the old fossils at Pekin—then the Japs were done for in China. There were forces behind Kilgore. I am not saying who; but it was not England's game to see Japan sweep the Chinese Republic out of existence. Not America's game either. Suddenly Kilgore uttered an exclamation:

“Mac can't find that bottle, I imagine. Come into the house, old man; or wait here until we get back, and I'll show you a few details about the gun. The telescopic legs lock with a split band and cam, for example.” I nodded, and Kilgore left the garage. He did not return.

IX

I WAS leaning over the gun, examining it, when the interruption came.

“Hands up!” crackled a sharp voice behind me, followed by the click of a cocking hammer.

That voice spelled business, and so did the click. I wasted no time looking, but put up my hands. Then I glanced around, and judge of my amazement when the owner of that voice proved to be James Death!

He held a revolver in his hand, and the gun was steady as a rock. Now I saw how true was Kilgore's warning, for the man was not the same I had left that morning. No! The broken-down old derelict was gone completely. In his place stood a man, old certainly, but filled with a sparkling glow of evil power which made him a dominating personality. The slack features had become taut, cruel, purposeful. The bleary eyes had become keen and deadly.

“Keep your hands up.”

With this, Death came toward me until he held the cocked revolver at my stomach and leered into my face. I was too paralyzed with astonishment to utter a word, as he took away my pistol.

“Turn your back.”

I obeyed and felt the revolver shoved into my spine. Now came an order to put my hands behind me, which I did. A moment later a cord passed about my wrists. With his one free hand the man tied me, and tied me securely. When his fingers clamped into my arm they were like steel points.

“Now march into the house.”

At this, comprehension flooded upon me, and I uttered a choked oath. He understood, and I heard a chuckle sound from behind.

“Yes, I got them both. And I've got you. March!”

The ease of my capture, the scorn and disdain with which he treated me, was maddening, but that revolver-muzzle was very soothing to the excited brain. He felt in my pocket and drew out his own box of opium-pellets and chuckled again. Whether he remembered all that had passed that morning I can't say; but I imagine he did.

I hoped some one might see us leave the garage, but the street was empty as usual. We went up the front steps of the house, and I marched inside, as gentle as a sheep led to the slaughter. I could try no tricks with this fellow. The tone of his voice told me that much.

Passing into the dining-room, I saw first a bottle of Scotch on the table. Then I saw McAuliffe sitting in a chair, with his head drooling over the back and blood on his face. Opening a bottle of whisky is an absorbing task, naturally, and Death had caught him at it; caught him with a blow from the front sight of the revolver, I judged, for his scalp was cut and he was senseless. Death had tied him into the chair.

Then in the corner I saw Kilgore likewise tied into a chair, but unhurt. He had been trapped as I had been, and like me he had too much sense to get shot. Probably he had counted largely on me at the moment.

“You reckoned without your host,” I said. “Got me before I heard a thing.”

Kilgore nodded. The revolver poked into my back again.

“Sit down with your hands over the back of your chair, your wrists behind it.”

In two minutes he had me bound hard and fast.

There we sat, poor Mac with his bloody face and drooping head, Kilgore with his eyes very bright and keen, his face rather pale, and clumsy Craig Day; all of us helpless. James Death looked us over and popped a pellet of opium into his mouth. Then he grinned.

“Well, I've got you!”

“Where'd you get the hop?” I asked him casually. He broke into low laughter.

“Ah! I got it from friends. And I shall take your fine new gun back to those friends, Mr. Kilgore! They are expecting me. They tried to follow me here, but I shook them off. I want no interference, you see.”

Kilgore's eyes went to me in a glance that was significant. He had guessed exactly what Death would do—had already done. Now he spoke. By the quiet level of his voice I knew that we were in a deadly situation, held by a man who was no better than a madman.

“You know that I am a man of my word, Death. Will any price tempt you to let us go and abandon your purpose? Name your figure. I will give it.”

“Money? Bah! I need none.” Death's voice held scorn.

I saw Kilgore settle back in his chair as if further argument were useless.

“Nothing can tempt me. I am going to get my orders from the Ten, you understand? I am going to bargain with them—your lives, for freedom from further pursuit, for pardon and grace. You will please not interrupt me, or I shall kill you at once.”

So saying, the man drew up a chair to the table and sat down, laying the revolver out before him.

Now, for what I am about to write, I pray your grace. You will not believe it. You will say that it was impossible. You will call it a trick of an opium-crazed brain, a madman's delusion. Conceded. Anything you like—but remember that this is my story; the story of what happened in that room.

“I am about to open communication with the Ten,” said Death again. “Remember, please!”

His hand touched the revolver significantly and we saw that he meant his words.

I have always thought that the fellows who did this brainwork went into a savage concentration over it. Now, however, James Death did nothing of the sort. He stared at the mirror in the buffet, as if looking at something far away, and relaxed utterly in his chair. He untensed every muscle and sat motionless, absolutely at ease.

His face changed, very slowly and imperceptibly. He became totally absorbed in what he was doing. His eyes fixed into a glassy stare, and when I vainly tugged at my bonds he paid no attention whatever to me. But Kilgore gave me a startled glance and shook his head. I desisted.

Sweat came out on the face of Death, and his lips began to move. I could not follow his words, although I could hear them; they were in a strange tongue. But, all of a sudden, he broke into English. And now his voice was queer, not his own voice at all.

“I am standing before you,” he said slowly, mumbling the words. That was all. Before whom? The Ten, I presume.

After this, his lips moved without sound. Was he really speaking in spirit with ten men on the other side of the world, ten men who sat in the temple of the Ten Dromedaries before that supernal pillar which upheld the ancient roof, and who answered his thought with theirs? I can not say. But I can avow that the thing was ghastly to see. The sweat rolled down his face, even trickled into his open eyes, and the lids never moved. This proved that he was in some sort of trance, beyond question; the physical was subordinated completely. The sweat rolled into his eyes and rolled out again on his cheeks in large tears.

“Yes,” he said suddenly. “I hear.”

His eyes closed. Was he now receiving a message from those ten priests who threw their wills across the world through space to him? You may suit yourself. I believe, personally, that be was. I believe that he actually got their orders, made his bargain with them.

“Very well,” he said again. “I will obey. I am satisfied.”

His eyes remained closed for a time. How long had elapsed during all this I can not say. It must have been a considerable time, for I felt myself rather shaken by the tenseness of it when at last his eyes opened again.

This time they were sane and cruel and purposeful, as if he had wakened from a sleep. He wiped his brow with his hand, and his fingers were shaking; the man must have been far gone with the strain of the exertion. He took out a box of opium and shoved two pellets into his mouth. His face had become a ghastly livid hue.

Now he sat silent, his eyes watching us, waiting for the opium to work. Little by little, color crept back into his cheeks, and the tired lines of age faded out. From McAuliffe came a stir, a faint groan, then a relaxing into unconsciousness. James Death looked at him, grinned evilly and came to his feet.

“You will be interested in hearing what I have arranged,” he said, addressing Kilgore. “The Ten have agreed that if I serve them to the extent of your deaths, no further pursuit shall be sent after me. So I have agreed to kill you. Perhaps you think I am lying? Then I will tell you that they revealed to me what had become of the body of Hat Shui. It was buried by you in the rough sands of the shore, a cable's length from the water!”

This gave me a startled twinge for a moment, but of course he might have deduced the disposition of the body. He picked up the revolver.

“There is no need of further talk,” he said with a horrible simplicity. “I will shoot you and end it quickly. Will you go first or last, Mr. Kilgore?”

Kilgore, very pale, smiled slightly. “As you wish,” he murmured.

“Better take me first,” I struck in. “I'd like to get it over with, —— you!”

James Death looked at me and smiled assent. His smile was unearthly, terrible, cruel as sin itself. In his eyes there was only a pitiless certainty as he lifted the revolver and cocked it again. I have seen death and murder in many a man's eyes, but never in such cold and frightful eyes as those.

“Through the brain,” he said, and threw up his hand.

Somehow I forced myself to keep my eyes open.

X

JAMES DEATH was in the very act of firing. I could see his finger tighten on the trigger, could see the white knuckle show—when something bobbed through the air and struck his revolver. The something was a gray traveling-cap.

The gun went off and I heard the bullet whistle past my ear and plop into the wall. Before me had appeared a vision, following the cap—the man who had flung it. That man was Fandi Singh.

For an instant I thought myself dreaming or mad, until the reality of the affair was bitterly impressed upon me. The Rajput had thrown his cap from the doorway, had spoiled the aim of the shot and then had leaped forward. Death whirled about and fired at him but missed. Then Fandi Singh had him.

“Well played!” came the voice of Kilgore, cool as though at a cricket-match. “Oh, well played, Rajput!”

The revolver went down to the floor, and I thought the affair over. But no.

Fandi Singh was a big man and powerful. None the less, James Death was animated by something more than human strength in that moment. Snarling, fighting like a wild animal, Death gave the Rajput blow for blow, grip for grip; neither of them knew anything about boxing, and the affair was one of utter brute-ferocity from start to finish.

The finish was delayed, also. To my horror, Death actually got the big Rajput to his knees, forced him down and back until I thought the man's back was breaking. Then, at the wrong instant, he loosened his grip to gouge for the eyes.

He missed the stroke, and Fandi Singh came up like a steel spring. Back and forth they reeled, one of them stamping on my foot and drawing a groan from me. That made me know the affair was real enough. The Rajput drove in hammer-blows that seemed to have no effect. Death hammered back at him.

Then in the midst of their struggle they both came down over the dining-room table. When they rose, Fandi Singh had the unopened whisky-bottle in his hand. Death pulled loose long enough to show the steel of a knife, but that knife never did him any good. There was a crash, and the acrid odor of raw Scotch filled the room. It was a man's blow, a fearful blow, and I did not need to look at the thing falling to the floor to know what had happened.

Panting, Fandi Singh stooped over, took the knife from Death's hand and cut us loose.

Our first thought was for McAuliffe. I held him, while Kilgore fed him a few drops of salvaged liquor. Presently his eyes opened and he groaned as I straightened him up. Then we had it out.

“Missed the confounded boat,” said Fandi Singh, laughing happily, “and a good job I did, too! Five minutes too late. They would have taken me out in a launch to her, but I refused. Fate was in it.

“I came back to the square, meaning to wait there for Day to come. I got there in time to see his meeting with James Death, and I watched. When Death slipped away, I followed him. He went through the bushes to Post Street and got into a taxicab. So I hired another and away we went—straight out Post to the Japanese quarter.

“Then I knew what he was up to, and I came here. You were gone. I went over to Day's house, found it deserted except for an old man who said Day had paid him to——”

“Yes, yes,” I broke in. “Go ahead. I hired him.”

“I dismissed him,” and the Rajput smiled. “Then I went to Death's room and settled down to watch this place. At three o'clock James Death came down the street, walking, alone. I was suspicious that Japs would come after him, so I waited. He went straight into the house as if knowing it to be empty. I had no arms of any sort, and I decided to await your return. When you came back, a man was walking down the street—a Jap. I stayed to watch him, but he went on and never looked back. Meantime, you had gone into the house. I saw Death and Day go in together, as I left Day's house. Unfortunately, there wasn't a gun in the garage, so I had to come in and do what I could.”

“You took a devilish long time about it,” I rejoined. “Feeling better, Mac? Look what your Rajput did to Death—brained him with that bottle of Scotch! This puts Mr. Death out of the game for keeps.”

Mac felt his sore head, looked at the débris on the floor and groaned.

“Losh, what an awfw' waste o' good whusky!”

We all laughed at that, a little shakily, perhaps. Then Kilgore looked at me.

“Well, Day! The Japs have got word of this thing from Death. They know nothing definite but they suspect; they'll be after us, I imagine. Want to throw in with us and go to China?”

“Why the devil did you put it that way?” I grunted. “I don't, but I will. Not tomorrow, though; you fellows are too cursed hasty. I want a chance to see my mother.”

Kilgore nodded. “All right. Tell you what. You sent her to a mountain hotel, didn't you? Well, go there yourself for a fortnight. Meet us at the China Mail dock three weeks from yesterday; there's a boat direct to Tientsin then. Look it up and meet us at the dock. We'll attend to everything, ticket and so forth. Suit you?”

“Can do,” I replied. “What about this?” and I touched the body of Death with my foot.

“Let him go to join Hat Shui, the messenger of the Ten. We'll manage him.”

Thus it was arranged. Kilgore also undertook to satisfy the police.

Tomorrow my period of rest and relaxation is up, and I am glad. Tomorrow I start back for the city, to meet my three friends at the China Mail boat. Not that I hanker for the Gobi, but I would hanker for hell with three such companions as those.

Besides, the monotony up here is deadly, and there is a fool woman who tries to make eyes at me. Aunt Nora told her I was an adventurer or something. So I'll be glad to get away for a bit and stretch my legs, even in the Gobi. To kill time, I've written down here just what happened over across the bay. You may not believe it, but I don't care about that. You can call me a liar when I'm in China, and you'll be safe enough.

If I meet up with the three, and we do make that temple of the Ten Dromedaries, and get back, then just wait! What kind of a liar will you call me then? Not much, I guess, for I'll be right here on the spot, and if there are any names called you'll hear from C. Day!

W' al salaam, as the Arabs say, there ends the matter!