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Dope

by Sax Rohmer · English · Gutenberg #1182 · 529,184 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Dope

Author: Sax Rohmer


        
Release date: January 1, 1998 [eBook #1182]
                Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1182

Credits: Alan Johns and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOPE ***

[Illustration]




Dope

By Sax Rohmer




CONTENTS

 PART FIRST—KAZMAH THE DREAM-READER
 CHAPTER I. A MESSAGE FOR IRVIN
 CHAPTER II. THE APARTMENTS OF KAZMAH
 CHAPTER III. KAZMAH
 CHAPTER IV. THE CLOSED DOOR
 CHAPTER V. THE DOOR IS OPENED
 CHAPTER VI. RED KERRY
 CHAPTER VII. FURTHER EVIDENCE
 CHAPTER VIII. KERRY CONSULTS THE ORACLE
 CHAPTER IX. A PACKET OF CIGARETTES
 CHAPTER X. SIR LUCIEN’S STUDY WINDOW
 CHAPTER XI. THE DRUG SYNDICATE

 PART SECOND—MRS. SIN
 CHAPTER XII. THE MAID OF THE MASQUE
 CHAPTER XIII. A CHANDU PARTY
 CHAPTER XIV. IN THE SHADE OF THE LONELY PALM
 CHAPTER XV. METAMORPHOSIS
 CHAPTER XVI. LIMEHOUSE
 CHAPTER XVII. THE BLACK SMOKE
 CHAPTER XVIII. THE DREAM OF SIN SIN WA
 CHAPTER XIX. THE TRAFFIC
 CHAPTER XX. KAZMAH’S METHODS
 CHAPTER XXI. THE CIGARETTES FROM BUENOS AYRES
 CHAPTER XXII. THE STRANGLE-HOLD

 PART THIRD—THE MAN FROM WHITEHALL
 CHAPTER XXIII. CHIEF INSPECTOR KERRY RESIGNS
 CHAPTER XXIV. TO INTRODUCE 719
 CHAPTER XXV. NIGHT-LIFE OF SOHO
 CHAPTER XXVI. THE MOODS OF MOLLIE
 CHAPTER XXVII. CROWN EVIDENCE
 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE GILDED JOSS
 CHAPTER XXIX. DOUBTS AND FEARS
 CHAPTER XXX. THE FIGHT IN THE DARK
 CHAPTER XXXI. THE STORY OF 719
 CHAPTER XXXII. ON THE ISLE OF DOGS

 PART FOURTH—THE EYE OF SIN SIN WA
 CHAPTER XXXIII. CHINESE MAGIC
 CHAPTER XXXIV. ABOVE AND BELOW
 CHAPTER XXXV. BEYOND THE VEIL
 CHAPTER XXXVI. SAM TÛK MOVES
 CHAPTER XXXVII. SETON PASHA REPORTS
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE SONG OF SIN SIN WA
 CHAPTER XXXIX. THE EMPTY WHARF
 CHAPTER XL. COIL OF THE PIGTAIL
 CHAPTER XLI. THE FINDING OF KAZMAH
 CHAPTER XLII. A YEAR LATER
 CHAPTER XLIII. THE STORY OF THE CRIME




PART FIRST
KAZMAH THE DREAM-READER




CHAPTER I.
A MESSAGE FOR IRVIN


Monte Irvin, alderman of the city and prospective Lord Mayor of London,
paced restlessly from end to end of the well-appointed library of his
house in Prince’s Gate. Between his teeth he gripped the stump of a
burnt-out cigar. A tiny spaniel lay beside the fire, his beady black
eyes following the nervous movements of the master of the house.

At the age of forty-five Monte Irvin was not ill-looking, and, indeed,
was sometimes spoken of as handsome. His figure was full without being
corpulent; his well-groomed black hair and moustache and fresh if
rather coarse complexion, together with the dignity of his upright
carriage, lent him something of a military air. This he assiduously
cultivated as befitting an ex-Territorial officer, although as he had
seen no active service he modestly refrained from using any title of
rank.

Some quality in his brilliant smile, an oriental expressiveness of the
dark eyes beneath their drooping lids, hinted a Semitic strain; but it
was otherwise not marked in his appearance, which was free from
vulgarity, whilst essentially that of a successful man of affairs.

In fact, Monte Irvin had made a success of every affair in life with
the lamentable exception of his marriage. Of late his forehead had
grown lined, and those business friends who had known him for a man of
abstemious habits had observed in the City chophouse at which he
lunched almost daily that whereas formerly he had been a noted
trencherman, he now ate little but drank much.

Suddenly the spaniel leapt up with that feverish, spider-like activity
of the toy species and began to bark.

Monte Irvin paused in his restless patrol and listened.

“Lie down!” he said. “Be quiet.”

The spaniel ran to the door, sniffing eagerly. A muffled sound of
voices became audible, and Irvin, following a moment of hesitation,
crossed and opened the door. The dog ran out, yapping in his irritating
staccato fashion, and an expression of hope faded from Irvin’s face as
he saw a tall fair girl standing in the hallway talking to Hinkes, the
butler. She wore soiled Burberry, high-legged tan boots, and a peaked
cap of distinctly military appearance. Irvin would have retired again,
but the girl glanced up and saw him where he stood by the library door.
He summoned up a smile and advanced.

“Good evening, Miss Halley,” he said, striving to speak genially—for of
all of his wife’s friends he liked Margaret Halley the best. “Were you
expecting to find Rita at home?”

The girl’s expression was vaguely troubled. She had the clear
complexion and bright eyes of perfect health, but to-night her eyes
seemed over-bright, whilst her face was slightly pale.

“Yes,” she replied; “that is, I hoped she might be at home.”

“I am afraid I cannot tell you when she is likely to return. But please
come in, and I will make inquiries.”

“Oh, no, I would rather you did not trouble and I won’t stay, thank you
nevertheless. I expect she will ring me up when she comes in.”

“Is there any message I can give her?”

“Well”—she hesitated for an instant—“you might tell her, if you would,
that I only returned home at eight o’clock, so that I could not come
around any earlier.” She glanced rapidly at Irvin, biting her lip. “I
wish I could have seen her,” she added in a low voice.

“She wishes to see you particularly?”

“Yes. She left a note this afternoon.” Again she glanced at him in a
troubled way. “Well, I suppose it cannot be helped,” she added and
smilingly extended her hand. “Good night, Mr. Irvin. Don’t bother to
come to the door.”

But Irvin passed Hinkes and walked out under the porch with Margaret
Halley. Humid yellow mist floated past the street lamps, and seemed to
have gathered in a moving reef around the little runabout car which was
standing outside the house, its motor chattering tremulously.

“Phew! a beastly night!” he said. “Foggy and wet.”

“It’s a brute isn’t it?” said the girl laughingly, and turned on the
steps so that the light shining out of the hallway gleamed on her white
teeth and upraised eyes. She was pulling on big, ugly, furred gloves,
and Monte Irvin mentally contrasted her fresh, athletic type of beauty
with the delicate, exotic charm of his wife.

She opened the door of the little car, got in and drove off, waving one
hugely gloved hand to Irvin as he stood in the porch looking after her.
When the red tail-light had vanished in the mist he returned to the
house and re-entered the library. If only all his wife’s friends were
like Margaret Halley, he mused, he might have been spared the
insupportable misgivings which were goading him to madness. His mind
filled with poisonous suspicions, he resumed his pacing of the library,
awaiting and dreading that which should confirm his blackest theories.
He was unaware of the fact that throughout the interview he had held
the stump of cigar between his teeth. He held it there yet, pacing,
pacing up and down the long room.

Then came the expected summons. The telephone bell rang. Monte Irvin
clenched his hands and inhaled deeply. His color changed in a manner
that would have aroused a physician’s interest. Regaining his
self-possession by a visible effort, he crossed to a small side-table
upon which the instrument rested. Rolling the cigar stump into the left
corner of his mouth, he took up the receiver.

“Hallo!” he said.

“Someone named Brisley, sir, wishes—”

“Put him through to me here.”

“Very good, sir.”

A short interval, then:

“Yes?” said Monte Irvin.

“My name is Brisley. I have a message for Mr. Monte Irvin.”

“Monte Irvin speaking. Anything to report, Brisley?”

Irvin’s deep, rich voice was not entirely under control.

“Yes, sir. The lady drove by taxicab from Prince’s Gate to Albemarle
Street.”

“Ah!”

“Went up to chambers of Sir Lucien Pyne and was admitted.”

“Well?”

“Twenty minutes later came out. Lady was with Sir Lucien. Both walked
around to old Bond Street. The Honorable Quentin Gray—”

“Ah!” breathed Irvin.

“—Overtook them there. He got out of a cab. He joined them. All three
up to apartments of a professional crystal-gazer styling himself Kazmah
‘the dream-reader.’”

A puzzled expression began to steal over the face of Monte Irvin. At
the sound of the telephone bell he had paled somewhat. Now he began to
recover his habitual florid coloring.

“Go on,” he directed, for the speaker had paused.

“Seven to ten minutes later,” resumed the nasal voice, “Mr. Gray came
down. He hailed a passing cab, but man refused to stop. Mr. Gray seemed
to be very irritable.”

The fact that the invisible speaker was reading from a notebook he
betrayed by his monotonous intonation and abbreviated sentences, which
resembled those of a constable giving evidence in a police court.

“He walked off rapidly in direction of Piccadilly. Colleague followed.
Near the Ritz he obtained a cab. He returned in same to old Bond
Street. He ran upstairs and was gone from four-and-a-half to five
minutes. He then came down again. He was very pale and agitated. He
discharged cab and walked away. Colleague followed. He saw Mr. Gray
enter Prince’s Restaurant. In the hall Mr. Gray met a gent unknown by
sight to colleague. Following some conversation both gents went in to
dinner. They are there now. Speaking from Dover Street Tube.”

“Yes, yes. But the lady?”

“A native, possibly Egyptian, apparently servant of Kazmah, came out a
few minutes after Mr. Gray had gone for cab, and went away. Sir Lucien
Pyne and lady are still in Kazmah’s rooms.”

“What!” cried Irvin, pulling out his watch and glancing at the disk.
“But it’s after eight o’clock!”

“Yes, sir. The place is all shut up, and other offices in block closed
at six. Door of Kazmah’s is locked. I knocked and got no reply.”

“Damn it! You’re talking nonsense! There must be another exit.”

“No, sir. Colleague has just relieved me. Left two gents over their
wine at Prince’s.”

Monte Irvin’s color began to fade slowly.

“Then it’s Pyne!” he whispered. The hand which held the receiver shook.
“Brisley—meet me at the Piccadilly end of Bond Street. I am coming
now.”

He put down the telephone, crossed to the wall and pressed a button.
The cigar stump held firmly between his teeth, he stood on the rug
before the hearth, facing the door. Presently it opened and Hinkes came
in.

“The car is ready, Hinkes?”

“Yes, sir, as you ordered. Shall Pattison come round to the door?”

“At once.”

“Very good, sir.”

He withdrew, closing the door quietly, and Monte Irvin stood staring
across the library at the full-length portrait in oils of his wife in
the pierrot dress which she had worn in the third act of _The Maid of
the Masque_.

The clock in the hall struck half-past eight.




CHAPTER II.
THE APARTMENTS OF KAZMAH


It was rather less than two hours earlier on the same evening that
Quentin Gray came out of the confectioner’s shop in old Bond Street
carrying a neat parcel. Yellow dusk was closing down upon this bazaar
of the New Babylon, and many of the dealers in precious gems, vendors
of rich stuffs, and makers of modes had already deserted their shops.
Smartly dressed show-girls, saleswomen, girl clerks and others crowded
the pavements, which at high noon had been thronged with ladies of
fashion. Here a tailor’s staff, there a hatter’s lingered awhile as
iron shutters and gratings were secured, and bidding one another good
night, separated and made off towards Tube and bus. The working day was
ended. Society was dressing for dinner.

Gray was about to enter the cab which awaited him, and his
fresh-colored, boyish face wore an expression of eager expectancy,
which must have betrayed the fact to an experienced beholder that he
was hurrying to keep an agreeable appointment. Then, his hand resting
on the handle of the cab-door, this expression suddenly changed to one
of alert suspicion.

A tall, dark man, accompanied by a woman muffled in grey furs and
wearing a silk scarf over her hair, had passed on foot along the
opposite side of the street. Gray had seen them through the cab
windows.

His smooth brow wrinkled and his mouth tightened to a thin straight
line beneath the fair “regulation” moustache. He fumbled under his
overcoat for loose silver, drew out a handful and paid off the taximan.

Sometimes walking in the gutter in order to avoid the throngs upon the
pavement, regardless of the fact that his glossy dress-boots were
becoming spattered with mud, Gray hurried off in pursuit of the pair.
Twenty yards ahead he overtook them, as they were on the point of
passing a picture dealer’s window, from which yellow light streamed
forth into the humid dusk. They were walking slowly, and Gray stopped
in front of them.

“Hello, you two!” he cried. “Where are you off to? I was on my way to
call for you, Rita.”

Flushed and boyish he stood before them, and his annoyance was
increased by their failure to conceal the fact that his appearance was
embarrassing if not unwelcome. Mrs. Monte Irvin was a petite, pretty
woman, although some of the more wonderful bronzed tints of her hair
suggested the employment of henna, and her naturally lovely complexion
was delicately and artistically enhanced by art. Nevertheless, the
flower-like face peeping out from the folds of a gauzy scarf, like a
rose from a mist, whilst her soft little chin nestled into the fur,
might have explained even in the case of an older man the infatuation
which Quentin Gray was at no pains to hide.

She glanced up at her companion, Sir Lucien Pyne, a swarthy, cynical
type of aristocrat, imperturbably. Then: “I had left a note for you,
Quentin,” she said hurriedly. She seemed to be in a dangerously
high-strung condition.

“But I have booked a table and a box,” cried Gray, with a hint of
juvenile petulance.

“My dear Gray,” said Sir Lucien coolly, “we are men of the world—and we
do not look for consistency in womenfolk. Mrs. Irvin has decided to
consult a palmist or a hypnotist or some such occult authority before
dining with you this evening. Doubtless she seeks to learn if the play
to which you propose to take her is an amusing one.”

His smile of sardonic amusement Gray found to be almost insupportable,
and although Sir Lucien refrained from looking at Mrs. Irvin whilst he
spoke, it was evident enough that his words held some covert
significance, for:

“You know perfectly well that I have a particular reason for seeing
him,” she said.

“A woman’s particular reason is a man’s feeble excuse,” murmured Sir
Lucien rudely. “At least, according to a learned Arabian philosopher.”

“I was going to meet you at Prince’s,” said Mrs. Irvin hurriedly, and
again glancing at Gray. There was a pathetic hesitancy in her manner,
the hesitancy of a weak woman who adheres to a purpose only by supreme
effort.

“Might I ask,” said Gray, “the name of the pervert you are going to
consult?”

Again she hesitated and glanced rapidly at Sir Lucien, but he was
staring coolly in another direction.

“Kazmah,” she replied in a low voice.

“Kazmah!” cried Gray. “The man who sells perfume and pretends to read
dreams? What an extraordinary notion. Wouldn’t tomorrow do? He will
surely have shut up shop!”

“I have been at pains to ascertain,” replied Sir Lucien, “at Mrs.
Irvin’s express desire, that the man of mystery is still in session and
will receive her.”

Beneath the mask of nonchalance which he wore it might have been
possible to detect excitement repressed with difficulty; and had Gray
been more composed and not obsessed with the idea that Sir Lucien had
deliberately intruded upon his plans for the evening, he could not have
failed to perceive that Mrs. Monte Irvin was feverishly preoccupied
with matters having no relation to dinner and the theatre. But his
private suspicions grew only the more acute.

“Then if the dinner is not off,” he said, “may I come along and wait
for you?”

“At Kazmah’s?” asked Mrs. Irvin. “Certainly.” She turned to Sir Lucien.
“Shall you wait? It isn’t much use as I’m dining with Quentin.”

“If I do not intrude,” replied the baronet, “I will accompany you as
far as the cave of the oracle, and then bid you good night.”

The trio proceeded along old Bond Street. Quentin Gray regarded the
story of Kazmah as a very poor lie devised on the spur of the moment.
If he had been less infatuated, his natural sense of dignity must have
dictated an offer to release Mrs. Irvin from her engagement. But
jealousy stimulates the worst instincts and destroys the best. He was
determined to attach himself as closely as the old Man of the Sea
attached himself to Es-Sindibad, in order that the lie might be
unmasked. Mrs. Irvin’s palpable embarrassment and nervousness he
ascribed to her perception of his design.

A group of shop girls and others waiting for buses rendered it
impossible for the three to keep abreast, and Gray, falling to the
rear, stepped upon the foot of a little man who was walking close
behind them.

“Sorry, sir,” said the man, suppressing an exclamation of pain—for the
fault had been Gray’s.

Gray muttered an ungenerous acknowledgment, all anxiety to regain the
side of Mrs. Irvin; for she seemed to be speaking rapidly and excitedly
to Sir Lucien.

He recovered his place as the two turned in at a lighted doorway. Upon
the wall was a bronze plate bearing the inscription:

KAZMAH
Second Floor


Gray fully expected Mrs. Irvin to suggest that he should return later.
But without a word she began to ascend the stairs. Gray followed, Sir
Lucien standing aside to give him precedence. On the second floor was a
door painted in Oriental fashion. It possessed neither bell nor
knocker, but as one stepped upon the threshold this door opened
noiselessly as if dumbly inviting the visitor to enter the square
apartment discovered. This apartment was richly furnished in the Arab
manner, and lighted by a fine brass lamp swung upon chains from the
painted ceiling. The intricate perforations of the lamp were inset with
colored glass, and the result was a subdued and warm illumination.
Odd-looking oriental vessels, long-necked jars, jugs with tenuous
spouts and squat bowls possessing engraved and figured covers emerged
from the shadows of niches. A low divan with gaily colored mattresses
extended from the door around one corner of the room where it
terminated beside a kind of _mushrabîyeh_ cabinet or cupboard. Beyond
this cabinet was a long, low counter laden with statuettes of Nile
gods, amulets, mummy-beads and little stoppered flasks of blue enamel
ware. There were two glass cases filled with other strange-looking
antiquities. A faint perfume was perceptible.

Sir Lucien entering last of the party, the door closed behind him, and
from the cabinet on the right of the divan a young Egyptian stepped
out. He wore the customary white robe, red sash and red slippers, and a
_tarbûsh_, the little scarlet cap commonly called a fez, was set upon
his head. He walked to a door on the left of the counter, and slid it
noiselessly open. Bowing gravely, “The Sheikh el Kazmah awaits,” he
said, speaking with the soft intonation of a native of Upper Egypt.

It now became evident, even to the infatuated Gray, that Mrs. Irvin was
laboring under the influence of tremendous excitement. She turned to
him quickly, and he thought that her face looked almost haggard, whilst
her eyes seemed to have changed color—become lighter, although he could
not be certain that this latter effect was not due to the peculiar
illumination of the room. But when she spoke her voice was unsteady.

“Will you see if you can find a cab,” she said. “It is so difficult at
night, and my shoes will get frightfully muddy crossing Piccadilly. I
shall not be more than a few minutes.” She walked through the doorway,
the Egyptian standing aside as she passed. He followed her, but came
out again almost immediately, reclosed the door, and retired into the
cabinet, which was evidently his private cubicle.

Silence claimed the apartment. Sir Lucien threw himself nonchalantly
upon the divan, and took out his cigarette-case.

“Will you have a cigarette, Gray?” he asked.

“No thanks,” replied the other, in tones of smothered hostility. He was
ill at ease, and paced the apartment nervously. Pyne lighted a
cigarette, and tossed the extinguished match into a brass bowl.

“I think,” said Gray jerkily, “I shall go for a cab. Are you
remaining?”

“I am dining at the club,” answered Pyne, “but I can wait until you
return.”

“As you wish,” jerked Gray. “I don’t expect to be long.”

He walked rapidly to the outer door, which opened at his approach and
closed noiselessly behind him as he made his exit.




CHAPTER III.
KAZMAH


Mrs. Monte Irvin entered the inner room. The air was heavy with the
perfume of frankincense which smouldered in a brass vessel set upon a
tray. This was the audience chamber of Kazmah. In marked contrast to
the overcrowded appointments, divans and cupboards of the first room,
it was sparsely furnished. The floor was thickly carpeted, but save for
an ornate inlaid table upon which stood the tray and incense-burner,
and a long, low-cushioned seat placed immediately beneath a hanging
lamp burning dimly in a globular green shade, it was devoid of
decoration. The walls were draped with green curtains, so that except
for the presence of the painted door, the four sides of the apartment
appeared to be uniform.

Having conducted Mrs. Irvin to the seat, the Egyptian bowed and retired
again through the doorway by which they had entered. The visitor found
herself alone.

She moved nervously, staring across at the blank wall before her. With
her little satin shoe she tapped the carpet, biting her under lip and
seeming to be listening. Nothing stirred. Not even an echo of busy Bond
Street penetrated to the place. Mrs. Irvin unfastened her cloak and
allowed it to fall back upon the settee. Her bare shoulders looked
waxen and unnatural in the weird light which shone down upon them. She
was breathing rapidly.

The minutes passed by in unbroken silence. So still was the room that
Mrs. Irvin could hear the faint crackling sound made by the burning
charcoal in the brass vessel near her. Wisps of blue-grey smoke arose
through the perforated lid and she began to watch them fascinatedly, so
lithe they seemed, like wraiths of serpents creeping up the green
draperies.

So she was seated, her foot still restlessly tapping, but her gaze
arrested by the hypnotic movements of the smoke, when at last a sound
from the outer world, penetrated to the room. A church clock struck the
hour of seven, its clangor intruding upon the silence only as a muffled
boom. Almost coincident with the last stroke came the sweeter note of a
silver gong from somewhere close at hand.

Mrs. Irvin started, and her eyes turned instantly in the direction of
the greenly draped wall before her. Her pupils had grown suddenly
dilated, and she clenched her hands tightly.

The light above her head went out.

Now that the moment was come to which she had looked forward with
mingled hope and terror, long pent-up emotion threatened to overcome
her, and she trembled wildly.

Out of the darkness dawned a vague light and in it a shape seemed to
take form. As the light increased the effect was as though part of the
wall had become transparent so as to reveal the interior of an inner
room where a figure was seated in a massive ebony chair. The figure was
that of an oriental, richly robed and wearing a white turban. His long
slim hands, of the color of old ivory, rested upon the arms of the
chair, and on the first finger of the right hand gleamed a big
talismanic ring. The face of the seated man was lowered, but from under
heavy brows his abnormally large eyes regarded her fixedly.

So dim the light remained that it was impossible to discern the details
with anything like clearness, but that the clean-shaven face of the man
with those wonderful eyes was strikingly and intellectually handsome
there could be no doubt.

This was Kazmah, “the dream reader,” and although Mrs. Irvin had seen
him before, his statuesque repose and the weirdness of his unfaltering
gaze thrilled her uncannily.

Kazmah slightly raised his hand in greeting: the big ring glittered in
the subdued light.

“Tell me your dream,” came a curious mocking voice; “and I will read
its portent.”

Such was the set formula with which Kazmah opened all interviews. He
spoke with a slight and not unmusical accent. He lowered his hand
again. The gaze of those brilliant eyes remained fixed upon the woman’s
face. Moistening her lips, Mrs. Irvin spoke.

“Dreams! What I have to say does not belong to dreams, but to reality!”
She laughed unmirthfully. “You know well enough why I am here.”

She paused.

“Why are you here?”

“You know! You know!” Suddenly into her voice had come the unmistakable
note of hysteria. “Your theatrical tricks do not impress me. I know
what you are! A spy—an eavesdropper who watches—watches, and listens!
But you may go too far! I am nearly desperate—do you understand?—nearly
desperate. Speak! Move! Answer me!”

But Kazmah preserved his uncanny repose.

“You are distracted,” he said. “I am sorry for you. But why do you come
to _me_ with your stories of desperation? You have insisted upon seeing
me. I am here.”

“And you play with me—taunt me!”

“The remedy is in your hands.”

“For the last time, I tell you I will never do it! Never, never,
never!”

“Then why do you complain? If you cannot afford to pay for your
amusements, and you refuse to compromise in a simple manner, why do you
approach _me?_”

“Oh, my God!” She moaned and swayed dizzily—“have pity on me! Who are
you, what are you, that you can bring ruin on a woman because—” She
uttered a choking sound, but continued hoarsely, “Raise your head. Let
me see your face. As heaven is my witness, I am ruined—ruined!”

“Tomorrow—”

“I cannot wait for tomorrow—”

That quivering, hoarse cry betrayed a condition of desperate febrile
excitement. Mrs. Irvin was capable of proceeding to the wildest
extremities. Clearly the mysterious Egyptian recognized this to be the
case, for slowly raising his hand:

“I will communicate with you,” he said, and the words were spoken
almost hurriedly. “Depart in peace—“; a formula wherewith he terminated
every seance. He lowered his hand.

The silver gong sounded again—and the dim light began to fade.

Thereupon the unhappy woman acted; the long suppressed outburst came at
last. Stepping rapidly to the green transparent veil behind which
Kazmah was seated, she wrenched it asunder and leapt toward the figure
in the black chair.

“You shall not trick me!” she panted. “Hear me out or I go straight to
the police—now—_now!_”

She grasped the hands of Kazmah as they rested motionless, on the
chair-arms.

Complete darkness came.

Out of it rose a husky, terrified cry—a second, louder cry; and then a
long, wailing scream... horror-laden as that of one who has touched
some slumbering reptile....




CHAPTER IV.
THE CLOSED DOOR


Rather less than five minutes later a taxicab drew up in old Bond
Street, and from it Quentin Gray leapt out impetuously and ran in at
the doorway leading to Kazmah’s stairs. So hurried was his progress
that he collided violently with a little man who, carrying himself with
a pronounced stoop, was slinking furtively out.

The little man reeled at the impact and almost fell, but:

“Hang it all!” cried Gray irritably. “Why the devil don’t you look
where you’re going!”

He glared angrily into the face of the other. It was a peculiar and
rememberable face, notable because of a long, sharp, hooked nose and
very little, foxy, brown eyes; a sly face to which a small, fair
moustache only added insignificance. It was crowned by a wide-brimmed
bowler hat which the man wore pressed down upon his ears like a Jew
pedlar.

“Why!” cried Gray, “this is the second time tonight you have jostled
me!”

He thought he had recognized the man for the same who had been
following himself, Mrs. Irvin and Sir Lucien Pyne along old Bond
Street.

A smile, intended to be propitiatory, appeared upon the pale face.

“No, sir, excuse me, sir—”

“Don’t deny it!” said Gray angrily. “If I had the time I should give
you in charge as a suspicious loiterer.”

Calling to the cabman to wait, he ran up the stairs to the second floor
landing. Before the painted door bearing the name of Kazmah he halted,
and as the door did not open, stamped impatiently, but with no better
result.

At that, since there was neither bell nor knocker, he raised his fist
and banged loudly.

No one responded to the summons.

“Hi, there!” he shouted. “Open the door! Pyne! Rita!”

Again he banged—and yet again. Then he paused, listening, his ear
pressed to the panel.

He could detect no sound of movement within. Fists clenched, he stood
staring at the closed door, and his fresh color slowly deserted him and
left him pale.

“Damn him!” he muttered savagely. “Damn him! he has fooled me!”

Passionate and self-willed, he was shaken by a storm of murderous
anger. That Pyne had planned this trick, with Rita Irvin’s consent, he
did not doubt, and his passive dislike of the man became active hatred
of the woman he dared not think. He had for long looked upon Sir Lucien
in the light of a rival, and the irregularity of his own infatuation
for another’s wife in no degree lessened his resentment.

Again he pressed his ear to the door, and listened intently. Perhaps
they were hiding within. Perhaps this charlatan, Kazmah, was an
accomplice in the pay of Sir Lucien. Perhaps this was a secret place of
rendezvous.

To the manifest absurdity of such a conjecture he was blind in his
anger. But that he was helpless, befooled, he recognized; and with a
final muttered imprecation he turned and slowly descended the stair. A
lingering hope was dispelled when, looking right and left along Bond
Street, he failed to perceive the missing pair.

The cabman glanced at him interrogatively. “I shall not require you,”
said Gray, and gave the man half-a-crown.

Busy with his poisonous conjectures, he remained all unaware of the
presence of a furtive, stooping figure which lurked behind the railings
of the arcade at this point linking old Bond Street to Albemarle
Street. Nor had the stooping stranger any wish to attract Gray’s
attention. Most of the shops in the narrow lane were already closed,
although the florist’s at the corner remained open, but of the shadow
which lay along the greater part of the arcade this alert watcher took
every advantage. From the recess formed by a shop door he peered out at
Gray, where the light of a street lamp fell upon him, studying his
face, his movements, with unrelaxing vigilance.

Gray, following some moments of indecision, strode off towards
Piccadilly. The little man came out cautiously from his hiding-place
and looked after him. Out of a dark porch, ten paces along Bond Street,
appeared a burly figure to fall into step a few yards behind Gray. The
little man licked his lips appreciatively and returned to the doorway
below the premises of Kazmah.

Reaching Piccadilly, Gray stood for a time on the corner, indifferent
to the jostling of passers-by. Finally he crossed, walked along to the
Prince’s Restaurant, and entered the lobby. He glanced at his
wrist-watch. It registered the hour of seven-twenty-five.

He cancelled his order for a table and was standing staring moodily
towards the entrance when the doors swung open and a man entered who
stepped straight up to him, hand extended, and:

“Glad to see you, Gray,” he said. “What’s the trouble?”

Quentin Gray stared as if incredulous at the speaker, and it was with
an unmistakable note of welcome in his voice that he replied:

“Seton! Seton Pasha!”

The frown disappeared from Gray’s forehead, and he gripped the other’s
hand in hearty greeting. But:

“Stick to plain Seton!” said the new-comer, glancing rapidly about him.
“Ottoman titles are not fashionable.”

The speaker was a man of arresting personality. Above medium height,
well but leanly built, the face of Seton “Pasha” was burned to a deeper
shade than England’s wintry sun is capable of producing. He wore a
close-trimmed beard and moustache, and the bronze on his cheeks
enhanced the brightness of his grey eyes and rendered very noticeable a
slight frosting of the dark hair above his temples. He had the
indescribable air of a “sure” man, a sound man to have beside one in a
tight place; and looking into the rather grim face, Quentin Gray felt
suddenly ashamed of himself. From Seton Pasha he knew that he could
keep nothing back. He knew that presently he should find himself
telling this quiet, brown-skinned man the whole story of his
humiliation—and he knew that Seton would not spare his feelings.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “you must pardon me if I sometimes fail to
respect your wishes in this matter. When I left the East the name of
Seton Pasha was on everybody’s tongue. But are you alone?”

“I am. I only arrived in London tonight and in England this morning.”

“Were you thinking of dining here?”

“No; I saw you through the doorway as I was passing. But this will do
as well as another place. I gather that you are disengaged. Perhaps you
will dine with me?”

“Splendid!” cried Gray. “Wait a moment. Perhaps my table hasn’t gone!”

He ran off in his boyish, impetuous fashion, and Seton watched him,
smiling quietly.

The table proved to be available, and ere long the two were discussing
an excellent dinner. Gray lost much of his irritability and began to
talk coherently upon topics of general interest. Presently, following
an interval during which he had been covertly watching his companion:

“Do you know, Seton,” he said, “you are the one man in London whose
company I could have tolerated tonight.”

“My arrival was peculiarly opportune.”

“Your arrivals are always peculiarly opportune.” Gray stared at Seton
with an expression of puzzled admiration. “I don’t think I shall ever
understand your turning up immediately before the Senussi raid in
Egypt. Do you remember? I was with the armored cars.”

“I remember perfectly.”

“Then you vanished in the same mysterious fashion, and the C. O. was a
sphinx on the subject. I next saw you strolling out of the gate at
Baghdad. How the devil you’d got to Baghdad, considering that you
didn’t come with us and that you weren’t with the cavalry, heaven only
knows!”

“No,” said Seton judicially, gazing through his uplifted wine-glass;
“when one comes to consider the matter without prejudice it is
certainly odd. But do I know the lady to whose non-appearance I owe the
pleasure of your company tonight?”

Quentin Gray stared at him blankly.

“Really, Seton, you amaze me. Did I say that I had an appointment with
a lady?”

“My dear Gray, when I see a man standing biting his nails and glaring
out into Piccadilly from a restaurant entrance I ask myself a question.
When I learn that he has just cancelled an order for a table for two I
answer it.”

Gray laughed. “You always make me feel so infernally young, Seton.”

“Good!”

“Yes, it’s good to feel young, but bad to feel a young fool; and that’s
what I feel—and what I am. Listen!”

Leaning across the table so that the light of the shaded lamp fell
fully upon his flushed, eager face, Gray, not without embarrassment,
told his companion of the “dirty trick”—so he phrased it—which Sir
Lucien Pyne had played upon him. In conclusion:

“What would you do, Seton?” he asked.

Seton sat regarding him in silence with a cool, calculating stare which
some men had termed insolent, absently tapping his teeth with the gold
rim of a monocle which he carried but apparently never used for any
other purpose; and it was at about this time that a long low car passed
near the door of the restaurant, crossing the traffic stream of
Piccadilly to draw up at the corner of old Bond Street.

From the car Monte Irvin alighted and, telling the man to wait, set out
on foot. Ten paces along Bond Street he encountered a small, stooping
figure which became detached from the shadows of a shop door. The light
of a street lamp shone down upon the sharp, hooked nose and into the
cunning little brown eyes of Brisley, of Spinker’s Detective Agency.
Monte Irvin started.

“Ah, Brisley!” he said, “I was looking for you. Are they still there?”

“Probably, sir.” Brisley licked his lips. “My colleague, Gunn, reports
no one came out whilst I was away ’phoning.”

“But the whole thing seems preposterous. Are there no other offices in
the block where they might be?”

“I personally saw Mr. Gray, Sir Lucien Pyne and the lady go into
Kazmah’s. At that time—roughly, ten to seven—all the other offices had
been closed, approximately, one hour.”

“There is absolutely no possibility that they might have come out
unseen by you?”

“None, sir. I should not have troubled a client if in doubt. Here’s
Gunn.”

Old Bond Street now was darkened and deserted; the yellow mist had
turned to fine rain, and Gunn, his hands thrust in his pockets, was
sheltering under the porch of the arcade. Gunn possessed a purple
complexion which attained to full vigor of coloring in the nasal
region. His moustache of dirty grey was stained brown in the centre as
if by frequent potations of stout, and his bulky figure was
artificially enlarged by the presence of two overcoats, the outer of
which was a waterproof and the inner a blue garment appreciably longer
both in sleeve and skirt than the former. The effect produced was one
of great novelty. Gunn touched the brim of his soft felt hat, which he
wore turned down all round apparently in imitation of a flower-pot.

“All snug, sir,” he said, hoarsely and confidentially, bending forward
and breathing the words into Irvin’s ear. “Snug as a bee in a hive.
You’re as good as a bachelor again.”

Monte Irvin mentally recoiled.

“Lead the way to the door of this place,” he said tersely.

“Yes, sir, this way, sir. Be careful of the step there. You may remark
that the outer door is not yet closed. I am informed upon reliable
authority as the last to go locks the door. Hence we perceive that the
last has not yet gone. It is likewise opened by the first to come of a
mornin’. Here we are, sir; door on the right.”

The landing was in darkness, but as Gunn spoke he directed the ray of a
pocket lamp upon a bronze plate bearing the name “Kazmah.” He rested
one hand upon his hip.

“All snug,” he repeated; “as snug as a eel in mud. The _decree nisi_ is
yours, sir. As an alderman of the City of London and a Justice of the
Peace you are entitled to call a police officer—”

“Hold your tongue!” rapped Irvin. “You’ve been drinking: and I place no
reliance whatever in your evidence. I do not believe that my wife or
any one else but ourselves is upon these premises.”

The watery eyes of the insulted man protruded unnaturally. “Drinkin’!”
he whispered, “drink—”

But indignation now deprived Gunn of speech and:

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted the nasal voice of Brisley, “but I can
absolutely answer for Gunn. Reputation of the Agency at stake. Worked
with us for three years. Parties undoubtedly on the premises as
reported.”

“Drink—” whispered Gunn.

“I shall be glad,” said Monte Irvin, and his voice shook emotionally,
“if you will lend me your pocket lamp. I am naturally upset. Will you
kindly both go downstairs. I will call if I want you.”

The two men obeyed, Gunn muttering hoarsely to Brisley; and Monte Irvin
was left standing on the landing, the lamp in his hand. He waited until
he knew from the sound of their footsteps that the pair had regained
the street, then, resting his arm against the closed door, and pressing
his forehead to the damp sleeve of his coat, he stood awhile, the lamp,
which he held limply, shining down upon the floor.

His lips moved, and almost inaudibly he murmured his wife’s name.




CHAPTER V.
THE DOOR IS OPENED


Quentin Gray and Seton strolled out of Prince’s and both paused whilst
Seton lighted a long black cheroot.

“It seems a pity to waste that box,” said Gray. “Suppose we look in at
the Gaiety for an hour?”

His humor was vastly improved, and he watched the passing throngs with
an expression more suited to his boyish good looks than that of anger
and mortification which had rested upon him an hour earlier.

Seton Pasha tossed a match into the road.

“My official business is finished for the day,” he replied. “I place
myself unreservedly in your hands.”

“Well, then,” began Gray—and paused.

A long, low car, the chauffeur temporarily detained by the stoppage of
a motorbus ahead, had slowed up within three yards of the spot where
they were standing. Gray seized Seton’s arm in a fierce grip.

“Seton,” he said, his voice betraying intense excitement, “Look! There
is Monte Irvin!”

“In the car?”

“Yes, yes! But—he has two _police_ with him! Seton, what can it mean?”

The car moved away, swinging to the right across the traffic stream and
clearly heading for old Bond Street. Quentin Gray’s mercurial color
deserted him, and he turned to Seton a face grown suddenly pale.

“Good God,” he whispered, “something has happened to Rita!”

Neglectful of his personal safety, he plunged out into the traffic,
dodging this way and that, and making after Monte Irvin’s car. Of the
fact that his friend was close beside him he remained unaware until, on
the corner of old Bond Street, a firm grip settled upon his shoulder.
Gray turned angrily. But the grip was immovable, and he found himself
staring into the unemotional face of Seton Pasha.

“Seton, for God’s sake, don’t detain me! I must learn what’s wrong.”

“Pull up, Gray.”

Quentin Gray clenched his teeth.

“Listen to me, Seton. This is no time for interference. I—”

“You are about to become involved in some very unsavory business; and I
repeat—pull up. In a moment we shall learn all there is to be learned.
But are you determined openly to thrust yourself into the family
affairs of Mr. Monte Irvin?”

“If anything has happened to Rita I’ll kill that damned cur Pyne!”

“You are determined to intrude upon this man in your present frame of
mind at a time of evident trouble?”

But Gray was deaf to the promptings of prudence and good taste alike.

“I’m going to see the thing through,” he said hoarsely.

“Quite so. Rely upon me. But endeavor to behave more like a man of the
world and less like a dangerous lunatic, or we shall quarrel
atrociously.”

Quentin Gray audibly gnashed his teeth, but the cool stare of the
other’s eyes was quelling, and now as their glances met and clashed, a
sympathetic smile softened the lines of Seton’s grim mouth, and:

“I quite understand, old chap,” he said, linking his arm in Gray’s.
“But can’t you see how important it is, for everybody’s sake, that we
should tackle the thing coolly?”

“Seton”—Gray’s voice broke—“I’m sorry. I know I’m mad; but I was with
her only an hour ago, and now—”

“And now ‘her’ husband appears on the scene accompanied by a police
inspector and a sergeant. What are your relations with Mr. Monte
Irvin?”

They were walking rapidly again along Bond Street.

“What do you mean, Seton?” asked Gray.

“I mean does he approve of your friendship with his wife, or is it a
clandestine affair?”

“Clandestine?—certainly not. I was on my way to call at the house when
I met her with Pyne this evening.”

“That is what I wanted to know. Very well; since you intend to follow
the thing up, it simplifies matters somewhat. Here is the car.”

“At Kazmah’s door! What in heaven’s name does it mean?”

“It means that we shall get a very poor reception if we intrude.
Question the chauffeur.”

But Gray had already approached the man, who touched his cap in
recognition.

“What’s the trouble, Pattison?” he demanded breathlessly. “I saw police
in the car a moment ago.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t rightly know, sir, what’s happened. But Mr. Irvin
drove from home to the corner of old Bond Street a quarter of an hour
ago and told me to wait, then came back again and drove round to Vine
Street to fetch the police. They’re inside now.”

Even as he spoke, with excitement ill-concealed, a police-sergeant came
out of the doorway, and:

“Move on, there,” he said to Seton and Gray. “You mustn’t hang about
this door.”

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” cried Gray, “but if the matter concerns Mrs.
Monte Irvin I can probably supply information.”

The Sergeant stared at him hard, saw that both he and his friend wore
evening dress, and grew proportionately respectful.

“What is your name, sir?” he asked. “I’ll mention it to the officer in
charge.”

“Quentin Gray. Inform Mr. Monte Irvin that I wish to speak to him.”

“Very good, sir.” He turned to the chauffeur. “Hand me out the bag I
gave you at Vine Street.” Pattison leaned over the door at the front of
the car, and brought out a big leather grip. With this in hand the
police-sergeant returned into the doorway.

“We’re in for it now,” said Seton grimly, “whatever it is.”

Gray returned no answer, moving restlessly up and down before the door
in a fever of excitement and dread. Presently the Sergeant reappeared.

“Step this way, please,” he said.

Followed by Seton and Gray he led the way up to the landing before
Kazmah’s apartments. It was vaguely lighted by two police-lanterns.
Four men were standing there, and four pairs of eyes were focussed upon
the stair-head.

Monte Irvin, his features a distressing ashen color, spoke.

“That you, Gray?” Quentin Gray would not have recognized the voice.
“Thanks for offering your help. God knows I need all I can get. You
were with Rita tonight. What happened? Where is she?”

“Heaven knows where she is!” cried Gray. “I left her here with Pyne
shortly after seven o’clock.”

He paused, fixing his gaze upon the face of Brisley, whose shifty eyes
avoided him and who was licking his lips in the manner of a dog who has
seen the whip.

“Why,” said Gray, “I believe you are the fellow who has been following
me all night for some reason.”

He stepped toward the foxy little man but:

“Never mind, Gray,” interrupted Irvin. “I was to blame. But he was
following my wife, not you. Tell me quickly: Why did she come here?”

Gray raised his hand to his brow with a gesture of bewilderment.

“To consult this man, Kazmah. I actually saw her enter the inner room,
I went to get a cab, and when I returned the door was locked.”

“You knocked?”

“Of course. I made no end of a row. But I could get no reply and went
away.”

Monte Irvin turned, a pathetic figure, to the Inspector who stood
beside him.

“We may as well proceed, Inspector Whiteleaf,” he said. “Mr. Gray’s
evidence throws no light on the matter at all.”

“Very well, sir,” was the reply; “we have the warrant, and have given
the usual notice to whoever may be hiding inside. Burton!”

The Sergeant stepped forward, placed the leather bag on the floor, and
stooping, opened it, revealing a number of burglarious-looking
instruments.

“Shall I try to cut through the panel?” he asked.

“No, no!” cried Monte Irvin. “Waste no time. You have a crowbar there.
Force the door from its hinges. Hurry, man!”

“It doesn’t work on hinges!” Gray interrupted excitedly. “It slides to
the right by means of some arrangement concealed under the mat.”

“Pass that lantern,” directed Burton, glancing over his shoulder to
Gunn.

Setting it beside him, the Sergeant knelt and examined the threshold of
the door.

“A metal plate,” he said. “The weight moves a lever, I suppose, which
opens the door if it isn’t locked. The lock will be on the left of the
door as it opens to the right. Let’s see what we can do.”

He stood up, crowbar in hand, and inserted the chisel blade of the
implement between the edge of the door and the doorcase.

“Hold steady!” said the Inspector, standing at his elbow.

The dull metallic sound of hammer blows on steel echoed queerly around
the well of the staircase. Brisley and Gunn, standing very close
together on the bottom step of the stair to the third floor, watched
the police furtively. Irvin and Gray found a common fascination in the
door itself, and Seton, cheroot in mouth, looked from group to group
with quiet interest.

“Right!” cried the Sergeant.

The blows ceased.

Firmly grasping the bar, Burton brought all his weight to bear upon it.
There was a dull, cracking sound and a sort of rasping. The door moved
slightly.

“There’s where it locks!” said the Inspector, directing the light of a
lantern upon the crevice created. “Three inches lower. But it may be
bolted as well.”

“We’ll soon get at the bolts,” replied Burton, the lust of destruction
now strong upon him.

Wrenching the crowbar from its place he attacked the lower panel of the
door, and amid a loud splintering and crashing created a hole big
enough to allow of the passage of a hand and arm.

The Inspector reached in, groped about, and then uttered an exclamation
of triumph.

“I’ve unfastened the bolt,” he said. “If there isn’t another at the top
you ought to be able to force the door now, Burton.”

The jimmy was thrust back into position, and:

“Stand clear!” cried Burton.

Again he threw his weight upon the bar—and again.

“Drive it further in!” said Monte Irvin; and snatching up the heavy
hammer, he rained blows upon the steel butt. “Now try.”

Burton exerted himself to the utmost.

“Take hold up here, someone!” he panted. “Two of us can pull.”

Gray leapt forward, and the pair of them bent to the task.

There came a dull report of parting mechanism, more sounds of
splintering wood... and the door rolled open!

A moment of tense silence, then:

“Is anyone inside there?” cried the Inspector loudly.

Not a sound came from the dark interior.

“The lantern!” whispered Monte Irvin.

He stumbled into the room, from which a heavy smell of perfume swept
out upon the landing. Quentin Gray, snatching the lantern from the
floor, where it had been replaced, was the next to enter.

“Look for the switch, and turn the lights on!” called the Inspector,
following.

Even as he spoke, Gray had found the switch, and the apartment of
Kazmah became flooded with subdued light.

A glance showed it to be unoccupied.

Gray ran across to the _mushrabîyeh_ cabinet and jerked the curtains
aside. There was no one in the cabinet. It contained a chair and a
table. Upon the latter was a telephone and some papers and books. “This
way!” he cried, his voice high pitched and unnatural.

He burst through the doorway into the inner room which he had seen Mrs.
Irvin enter. The air was laden with the smell of frankincense.

“A lantern!” he called. “I left one on the divan.”

But Monte Irvin had caught it up and was already at his elbow. His hand
was shaking so that the light danced wildly now upon the carpet, now
upon the green walls. This room also was deserted. A black gap in the
curtain showed where the material had been roughly torn. Suddenly:

“My God, look!” muttered the Inspector, who, with the others, now stood
in the curious draped apartment.

A thin stream of blood was trickling out from beneath the torn
hangings!

Monte Irvin staggered and fell back against the Inspector, clutching at
him for support. But Sergeant Burton, who carried the second lantern,
crossed the room and wrenched the green draperies bodily from their
fastenings.

They had masked a wooden partition or stout screen, having an aperture
in the centre which could be closed by means of another of the sliding
doors. A space some five feet deep was thus walled off from this second
room. It contained a massive ebony chair. Behind the chair, and
dividing the second room into yet a third section, extended another
wooden partition in one end of which was an ordinary office door; and
immediately at the back of the chair appeared a little opening or
window, some three feet up from the floor. The sound of a groan,
followed by that of a dull thud, came from the outer room.

“Hullo!” cried Inspector Whiteleaf. “Mr. Irvin has fainted. Lend a
hand.”

“I am here,” replied the quiet voice of Seton Pasha.

“My God!” whispered Gray. “Seton! Seton!”

“Touch nothing,” cried the Inspector from outside, “until I come!”

And now the narrow apartment became filled with all the awe-stricken
company, only excepting Monte Irvin, and Brisley, who was attending to
the swooning man.

Flat upon the floor, between the door and the ebony chair, arms
extended and eyes staring upward at the ceiling, lay Sir Lucien Pyne,
his white shirt front redly dyed. In the hush which had fallen, the
footsteps of Inspector Whiteleaf sounded loudly as he opened the final
door, and swept the interior of an inner room with the rays of the
lantern.

The room was barely furnished as an office. There was another
half-glazed door opening on to a narrow corridor. This door was locked.

“_Pyne!_” whispered Gray, pale now to the lips. “Do you understand,
Seton? It’s Pyne! Look! He has been stabbed!”

Sergeant Burton knelt down and gingerly laid his hand upon the stained
linen over the breast of Sir Lucien.

“Dead?” asked the Inspector, speaking from the inner doorway.

“Yes.”

“You say, sir,” turning to Quentin Gray, “that this is Sir Lucien
Pyne?”

“Yes.”

Inspector Whiteleaf rather clumsily removed his cap. The odor of
Seton’s cheroot announced itself above the oriental perfume with which
the place was laden.

“Burton!”

“Yes?”

“See if this telephone in the office is in order. It appears to be an
extension from the outer room.”

While the others stood grouped about that still figure on the floor,
Sergeant Burton entered the little office.

“Hello!” he cried. “Yes?” A momentary interval, then: “It’s all right,
sir. What number?”

“Gentlemen,” said the Inspector, firmly and authoritatively, “I am
about to telephone to Vine Street for instructions. No one will leave
the premises.”

Amid an intense hush:

“Regent 201,” called Sergeant Burton.




CHAPTER VI.
RED KERRY


Chief Inspector Kerry, of the Criminal Investigation Department, stood
before the empty grate of his cheerless office in New Scotland Yard,
one hand thrust into the pocket of his blue reefer jacket and the other
twirling a malacca cane, which was heavily silver-mounted and which
must have excited the envy of every sergeant-major beholding it. Chief
Inspector Kerry wore a very narrow-brimmed bowler hat, having two
ventilation holes conspicuously placed immediately above the band. He
wore this hat tilted forward and to the right.

“Red Kerry” wholly merited his sobriquet, for the man was as red as
fire. His hair, which he wore cropped close as a pugilist’s, was
brilliantly red, and so was his short, wiry, aggressive moustache. His
complexion was red, and from beneath his straight red eyebrows he
surveyed the world with a pair of unblinking, intolerant steel-blue
eyes. He never smoked in public, as his taste inclined towards Irish
twist and a short clay pipe; but he was addicted to the use of
chewing-gum, and as he chewed—and he chewed incessantly—he revealed a
perfect row of large, white, and positively savage-looking teeth. High
cheek bones and prominent maxillary muscles enhanced the truculence
indicated by his chin.

But, next to this truculence, which was the first and most alarming
trait to intrude itself upon the observer’s attention, the outstanding
characteristic of Chief Inspector Kerry was his compact neatness. Of no
more than medium height but with shoulders like an acrobat, he had
slim, straight legs and the feet of a dancing master. His attire, from
the square-pointed collar down to the neat black brogues, was spotless.
His reefer jacket fitted him faultlessly, but his trousers were cut so
unfashionably narrow that the protuberant thigh muscles and the line of
a highly developed calf could quite easily be discerned. The hand
twirling the cane was small but also muscular, freckled and covered
with light down. Red Kerry was built on the lines of a whippet, but
carried the equipment of an Irish terrier.

The telephone bell rang. Inspector Kerry moved his square shoulders in
a manner oddly suggestive of a wrestler, laid the malacca cane on the
mantleshelf, and crossed to the table. Taking up the telephone:

“Yes?” he said, and his voice was high-pitched and imperious.

He listened for a moment.

“Very good, sir.”

He replaced the receiver, took up a wet oilskin overall from the back
of a chair and the cane from the mantleshelf. Then rolling chewing-gum
from one corner of his mouth into the other, he snapped off the
electric light and walked from the room.

Along the corridor he went with a lithe, silent step, moving from the
hips and swinging his shoulders. Before a door marked “Private” he
paused. From his waistcoat pocket he took a little silver convex mirror
and surveyed himself critically therein. He adjusted his neat tie,
replaced the mirror, knocked at the door and entered the room of the
Assistant Commissioner.

This important official was a man constructed on huge principles, a man
of military bearing, having tired eyes and a bewildered manner. He
conveyed the impression that the collection of documents, books,
telephones, and other paraphernalia bestrewing his table had reduced
him to a state of stupor. He looked up wearily and met the fierce gaze
of the chief inspector with a glance almost apologetic.

“Ah, Chief Inspector Kerry?” he said, with vague surprise. “Yes. I told
you to come. Really, I ought to have been at home hours ago. It’s most
unfortunate. I have to do the work of three men. This _is_ your
department, is it not, Chief Inspector?”

He handed Kerry a slip of paper, at which the Chief Inspector stared
fiercely.

“Murder!” rapped Kerry. “Sir Lucien Pyne. Yes, sir, I am still on
duty.”

His speech, in moments of interest, must have suggested to one
overhearing him from an adjoining room, for instance, the operation of
a telegraphic instrument. He gave to every syllable the value of a rap
and certain words he terminated with an audible snap of his teeth.

“Ah,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner. “Yes. Divisional
Inspector—Somebody (I cannot read the name) has detained all the
parties. But you had better report at Vine Street. It appears to be a
big case.”

He sighed wearily.

“Very good, sir. With your permission I will glance at Sir Lucien’s
pedigree.”

“Certainly—certainly,” said the Assistant Commissioner, waving one
large hand in the direction of a bookshelf.

Kerry crossed the room, laid his oilskin and cane upon a chair, and
from the shelf where it reposed took a squat volume. The Assistant
Commissioner, hand pressed to brow, began to study a document which lay
before him.

“Here we are,” said Kerry, _sotto voce_. “Pyne, Sir Lucien St. Aubyn,
fourth baronet, son of General Sir Christian Pyne, K.C.B. H’m! Born
Malta.... Oriel College; first in classics.... H’m. Blue.... India,
Burma.... Contested Wigan.... attached British Legation. ... H’m!...”

He returned the book to its place, took up his overall and cane, and:

“Very good, sir,” he said. “I will proceed to Vine Street.”

“Certainly—certainly,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner, glancing up
absently. “Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Oh, Chief Inspector!”

Kerry turned, his hand on the door-knob.

“Sir?”

“I—er—what was I going to say? Oh, yes! The social importance of the
murdered man raises the case from the—er—you follow me? Public interest
will become acute, no doubt. I have therefore selected you for your
well known discretion. I met Sir Lucien once. Very sad. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Kerry passed out into the corridor, closing the door quietly. The
Assistant Commissioner was a man for whom he entertained the highest
respect. Despite the bewildered air and wandering manner, he knew this
big, tired-looking soldier for an administrator of infinite capacity
and inexhaustive energy.

Proceeding to a room further along the corridor, Chief Inspector Kerry
opened the door and looked in.

“Detective-Sergeant Coombes.” he snapped, and rolled chewing-gum from
side to side of his mouth.

Detective-Sergeant Coombes, a plump, short man having lank black hair
and a smile of sly contentment perpetually adorning his round face,
rose hurriedly from the chair upon which he had been seated. Another
man who was in the room rose also, as if galvanized by the glare of the
fierce blue eyes.

“I’m going to Vine Street,” said Kerry succinctly; “you’re coming with
me,” turned, and went on his way.

Two taxicabs were standing in the yard, and into the first of these
Inspector Kerry stepped, followed by Coombes, the latter breathing
heavily and carrying his hat in his hand, since he had not yet found
time to put it on.

“Vine Street,” shouted Kerry. “Brisk.”

He leaned back in the cab, chewing industriously. Coombes, having
somewhat recovered his breath, essayed speech.

“Is it something big?” he asked.

“Sure,” snapped Kerry. “Do they send _me_ to stop dog-fights?”

Knowing the man and recognizing the mood, Coombes became silent, and
this silence he did not break all the way to Vine Street. At the
station:

“Wait,” said Chief Inspector Kerry, and went swinging in, carrying his
overall and having the malacca cane tucked under his arm.

A few minutes later he came out again and reentered the cab.

“Piccadilly corner of Old Bond Street,” he directed the man.

“Is it burglary?” asked Detective-Sergeant Coombes with interest.

“No,” said Kerry. “It’s murder; and there seems to be stacks of
evidence. Sharpen your pencil.”

“Oh!” murmured Coombes.

They were almost immediately at their destination, and Chief Inspector
Kerry, dismissing the cabman, set off along Bond Street with his lithe,
swinging gait, looking all about him intently. Rain had ceased, but the
air was damp and chilly, and few pedestrians were to be seen.

A car was standing before Kazmah’s premises, the chauffeur walking up
and down on the pavement and flapping his hands across his chest in
order to restore circulation. The Chief Inspector stopped, “Hi, my
man!” he said.

The chauffeur stood still.

“Whose car?”

“Mr. Monte Irvin’s.”

Kerry turned on his heel and stepped to the office door. It was ajar,
and Kerry, taking an electric torch from his overall pocket, flashed
the light upon the name-plate. He stood for a moment, chewing and
looking up the darkened stairs. Then, torch in hand he ascended.

Kazmah’s door was closed, and the Chief Inspector rapped loudly. It was
opened at once by Sergeant Burton, and Kerry entered, followed by
Coombes.

The room at first sight seemed to be extremely crowded. Monte Irvin,
very pale and haggard, sat upon the divan beside Quentin Gray. Seton
was standing near the cabinet, smoking. These three had evidently been
conversing at the time of the detective’s arrival with an
alert-looking, clean-shaven man whose bag, umbrella, and silk hat stood
upon one of the little inlaid tables. Just inside the second door were
Brisley and Gunn, both palpably ill at ease, and glancing at Inspector
Whiteleaf, who had been interrogating them.

Kerry chewed silently for a moment, bestowing a fierce stare upon each
face in turn, then:

“Who’s in charge?” he snapped.

“I am,” replied Whiteleaf.

“Why is the lower door open?”

“I thought—”

“Don’t think. Shut the door. Post your Sergeant inside. No one is to go
out. Grab anybody who comes in. Where’s the body?”

“This way,” said Inspector Whiteleaf hurriedly; then, over his
shoulder: “Go down to the door, Burton.”

He led Kerry towards the inner room, Coombes at his heels. Brisley and
Gunn stood aside to give them passage; Gray and Monte Irvin prepared to
follow. At the doorway Kerry turned.

“You will all be good enough to stay where you are,” he said. He
directed the aggressive stare in Seton’s direction. “And if the
gentleman smoking a cheroot is not satisfied that he has quite
destroyed any clue perceptible by the sense of smell I should be glad
to send out for some fireworks.”

He tossed his oilskin and his cane on the divan and went into the room
of seance, savagely biting at a piece of apparently indestructible
chewing-gum.

The torn green curtain had been laid aside and the electric lights
turned on in the inside rooms. Pallid, Sir Lucien Pyne lay by the ebony
chair glaring horribly upward.

Always with the keen eyes glancing this way and that, Inspector Kerry
crossed the little audience room and entered the enclosure contained
between the two screens. By the side of the dead man he stood, looking
down silently. Then he dropped upon one knee and peered closely into
the white face. He looked up.

“He has not been moved?”

“No.”

Kerry bent yet lower, staring closely at a discolored abrasion on Sir
Lucien’s forehead. His glance wandered from thence to the carved ebony
chair. Still kneeling, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a powerful
lens contained in a washleather bag. He began to examine the back and
sides of the chair. Once he laid his finger lightly on a protruding
point of the carving, and then scrutinised his finger through the
glass. He examined the dead man’s hands, his nails, his garments. Then
he crawled about, peering closely at the carpet.

He stood up suddenly. “The doctor,” he snapped.

Inspector Whiteleaf retired, but returned immediately with the
clean-shaven man to whom Monte Irvin had been talking when Kerry
arrived.

“Good evening, doctor,” said Kerry. “Do I know your name? Start your
notes, Coombes.”

“My name is Dr. Wilbur Weston, and I live in Albemarle Street.”

“Who called you?”

“Inspector Whiteleaf telephoned to me about half an hour ago.”

“You examined the dead man?”

“I did.”

“You avoided moving him?”

“It was unnecessary to move him. He was dead, and the wound was in the
left shoulder. I pulled his coat open and unbuttoned his shirt. That
was all.”

“How long dead?”

“I should say he had been dead not more than an hour when I saw him.”

“What had caused death?”

“The stab of some long, narrow-bladed weapon, such as a stiletto.”

“Why a stiletto?” Kerry’s fierce eyes challenged him. “Did you ever see
a wound made by a stiletto?”

“Several—in Italy, and one at Saffron Hill. They are characterised by
very little external bleeding.”

“Right, doctor. It had reached his heart?”

“Yes. The blow was delivered from behind.”

“How do you know?”

“The direction of the wound is forward. I have seen an almost identical
wound in the case of an Italian woman stabbed by a jealous rival.”

“He would fall on his back.”

“Oh, no. He would fall on his face, almost certainly.”

“But he lies on his back.”

“In my opinion he had been moved.”

“Right. I know he had. Good night, doctor. See him out, Inspector.”

Dr. Weston seemed rather startled by this abrupt dismissal, but the
steel-blue eyes of Inspector Kerry were already bent again upon the
dead man, and, murmuring “good night,” the doctor took his departure,
followed by Whiteleaf.

“Shut this door,” snapped Kerry after the Inspector. “I will call when
I want you. You stay, Coombes. Got it all down?”

Sergeant Coombes scratched his head with the end of a pencil, and:

“Yes,” he said, with hesitancy. “That is, except the word after
‘narrow-bladed weapon such as a’ I’ve got what looks like
‘steelhatto.’”

Kerry glared.

“Try taking the cotton-wool out of your ears,” he suggested. “The word
was stiletto, s-t-i-l-e-t-t-o—stiletto.”

“Oh,” said Coombes, “thanks.”

Silence fell between the two men from Scotland Yard. Kerry stood
awhile, chewing and staring at the ghastly face of Sir Lucien. Then:

“Go through all pockets,” he directed.

Sergeant Coombes placed his notebook and pencil upon the seat of the
chair and set to work. Kerry entered the inside room or office. It
contained a writing-table (upon which was a telephone and a pile of old
newspapers), a cabinet, and two chairs. Upon one of the chairs lay a
crush-hat, a cane, and an overcoat. He glanced at some of the
newspapers, then opened the drawers of the writing-table. They were
empty. The cabinet proved to be locked, and a door which he saw must
open upon a narrow passage running beside the suite of rooms was locked
also. There was nothing in the pockets of the overcoat, but inside the
hat he found pasted the initials L. P. He rolled chewing-gum, stared
reflectively at the little window immediately above the table, through
which a glimpse might be obtained of the ebony chair, and went out
again.

“Nothing,” reported Coombes.

“What do you mean—nothing?”

“His pockets are empty!”

“All of them?”

“Every one.”

“Good,” said Kerry. “Make a note of it. He wears a real pearl stud and
a good signet ring; also a gold wrist watch, face broken and hands
stopped at seven-fifteen. That was the time he died. He was stabbed
from behind as he stood where I’m standing now, fell forward, struck
his head on the leg of the chair, and lay face downwards.”

“I’ve got that,” muttered Coombes. “What stopped the watch?”

“Broken as he fell. There are tiny fragments of glass stuck in the
carpet, showing the exact position in which his body originally lay;
and for God’s sake stop smiling.”

Kerry threw open the door.

“Who first found the body?” he demanded of the silent company.

“I did,” cried Quentin Gray, coming forward. “I and Seton Pasha.”

“Seton Pasha!” Kerry’s teeth snapped together, so that he seemed to
bite off the words. “I don’t see a Turk present.”

Seton smiled quietly.

“My friend uses a title which was conferred upon me some years ago by
the ex-Khedive,” he said. “My name is Greville Seton.”

Inspector Kerry glanced back across his shoulder.

“Notes,” he said. “Unlock your ears, Coombes.” He looked at Gray. “What
is your name?”

“Quentin Gray.”

“Who are you, and in what way are you concerned in this case?”

“I am the son of Lord Wrexborough, and I—”

He paused, glancing helplessly at Seton. He had recognized that the
first mention of Rita Irvin’s name in the police evidence must be made
by himself.

“Speak up, sir,” snapped Kerry. “Sergeant Coombes is deaf.”

Gray’s face flushed, and his eyes gleamed angrily.

“I should be glad, Inspector,” he said, “if you would remember that the
dead man was a personal acquaintance and that other friends are
concerned in this ghastly affair.”

“Coombes will remember it,” replied Kerry frigidly. “He’s taking
notes.”

“Look here—” began Gray.

Seton laid his hand upon the angry man’s shoulder.

“Pull up, Gray,” he said quietly. “Pull up, old chap.” He turned his
cool regard upon Chief Inspector Kerry, twirling the cord of his
monocle about one finger. “I may remark, Inspector Kerry—for I
understand this to be your name—that your conduct of the inquiry is not
always characterised by the best possible taste.”

Kerry rolled chewing-gum, meeting Seton’s gaze with a stare intolerant
and aggressive. He imparted that odd writhing movement to his
shoulders.

“For my conduct I am responsible to the Commissioner,” he replied. “And
if he’s not satisfied the Commissioner can have my written resignation
at any hour in the twenty-four that he’s short of a pipe-lighter. If it
would not inconvenience you to keep quiet for two minutes I will
continue my examination of this witness.”




CHAPTER VII.
FURTHER EVIDENCE


The examination of Quentin Gray was three times interrupted by
telephone messages from Vine Street; and to the unsatisfactory
character of these the growing irascibility of Chief Inspector Kerry
bore testimony. Then the divisional surgeon arrived, and Burton
incurred the wrath of the Chief Inspector by deserting his post to show
the doctor upstairs.

“If inspired idiocy can help the law,” shouted Kerry, “the man who did
this job is as good as dead!” He turned his fierce gaze in Gray’s
direction. “Thank you, sir. I need trouble you no further.”

“Do you wish me to remain?”

“No. Inspector Whiteleaf, see these two gentlemen past the Sergeant on
duty.”

“But damn it all!” cried Gray, his pent-up emotions at last demanding
an outlet, “I won’t submit to your infernal dragooning! Do you realize
that while you’re standing here, doing nothing—absolutely nothing—an
unhappy woman is—”

“I realize,” snapped Kerry, showing his teeth in canine fashion, “that
if you’re not outside in ten seconds there’s going to be a cloud of
dust on the stairs!”

White with passion, Gray was on the point of uttering other angry and
provocative words when Seton took his arm in a firm grip. “Gray!” he
said sharply. “You leave with me now or I leave alone.”

The two walked from the room, followed by Whiteleaf. As they
disappeared:

“Read out all the _times_ mentioned in the last witness’s evidence,”
directed Kerry, undisturbed by the rencontre.

Sergeant Coombes smiled rather uneasily, consulting his notebook.

“‘At about half-past six I drove to Bond Street,’” he began.

“I said the _times_,” rapped Kerry. “I know to what they refer. Just
give me the times as mentioned.”

“Oh,” murmured Coombes, “Yes. ‘About half-past six.’” He ran his finger
down the page. “‘A quarter to seven.’ ‘Seven o’clock.’ ‘Twenty-five
minutes past seven.’ ‘Eight o’clock.’”

“Stop!” said Kerry. “That’s enough.” He fixed a baleful glance upon
Gunn, who from a point of the room discreetly distant from the terrible
red man was watching with watery eyes. “Who’s the smart in all the
overcoats?” he demanded.

“My name is James Gunn,” replied this greatly insulted man in a husky
voice.

“Who are you? What are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m employed by Spinker’s Agency, and—”

“Oh!” shouted Kerry, moving his shoulders. He approached the speaker
and glared menacingly into his purple face. “Ho, ho! So you’re one of
the queer birds out of that roost, are you? Spinker’s Agency! Ah, yes!”
He fixed his gaze now upon the pale features of Brisley. “I’ve seen you
before, haven’t I?”

“Yes, Chief Inspector,” said Brisley, licking his lips. “Hayward’s
Heath. We have been retained by—”

“_You_ have been retained!” shouted Kerry. “_You_ have!”

He twisted round upon his heel, facing Monte Irvin. Angry words
trembled on his tongue. But at sight of the broken man who sat there
alone, haggard, a subtle change of expression crept into his fierce
eyes, and when he spoke again the high-pitched voice was almost gentle.
“You had employed these men, sir, to watch—”

He paused, glancing towards Whiteleaf, who had just entered again, and
then in the direction of the inner room where the divisional surgeon
was at work.

“To watch my wife, Inspector. Thank you, but all the world will know
tomorrow. I might as well get used to it.”

Monte Irvin’s pallor grew positively alarming. He swayed suddenly and
extended his hands in a significant groping fashion. Kerry sprang
forward and supported him.

“All right, Inspector—all right,” muttered Irvin. “Thank you. It has
been a great shock. At first I feared—”

“You thought your wife had been attacked, I understand? Well—it’s not
so bad as that, sir. I am going to walk downstairs to the car with
you.”

“But there is so much you will want to know—”

“It can keep until tomorrow. I’ve enough work in this peep-show here to
have me busy all night. Come along. Lean on my arm.”

Monte Irvin rose unsteadily. He knew that there was cardiac trouble in
his family, but he had never realized before the meaning of his
heritage. He felt physically ill.

“Inspector”—his voice was a mere whisper—“have you any theory to
explain—”

“Mrs. Irvin’s disappearance? Don’t worry, sir. Without exactly having a
theory I think I may say that in my opinion she will turn up
presently.”

“God bless you,” murmured Irvin, as Kerry assisted him out on to the
landing.

Inspector Whiteleaf held back the sliding door, the mechanism of which
had been broken so that the door now automatically remained half
closed.

“Funny, isn’t it,” said Gunn, as the two disappeared and Inspector
Whiteleaf re-entered, “that a man should be so upset about the
disappearance of a woman he was going to divorce?”

“Damn funny!” said Whiteleaf, whose temper was badly frayed by contact
with Kerry. “I should have a good laugh if I were you.”

He crossed the room, going in to where the surgeon was examining the
victim of this mysterious crime. Gunn stared after him dismally.

“A person doesn’t get much sympathy from the police, Brisley,” he
declared. “That one’s almost as bad as _him_,” jerking his thumb in the
direction of the landing.

Brisley smiled in a somewhat sickly manner.

“Red Kerry is a holy terror,” he agreed, _sotto voce_, glancing aside
to where Coombes was checking his notes. “Look out! Here he comes.”

“Now,” cried Kerry, swinging into the room, “what’s the game? Plotting
to defeat the ends of justice?”

He stood with hands thrust in reefer pockets, feet wide apart, glancing
fiercely from Brisley to Gunn, and from Gunn back again to Brisley.
Neither of the representatives of Spinker’s Agency ventured any remark,
and:

“How long have you been watching Mrs. Monte Irvin?” demanded Kerry.

“Nearly a fortnight,” replied Brisley.

“Got your evidence in writing?”

“Yes.”

“Up to tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Dictate to Sergeant Coombes.”

He turned on his heel and crossed to the divan upon which his oilskin
overall was lying. Rapidly he removed his reefer and his waistcoat,
folded them, and placed them neatly beside his overall. He retained his
bowler at its jaunty angle.

A cud of presumably flavorless chewing-gum he deposited in a brass
bowl, and from a little packet which he had taken out of his jacket
pocket he drew a fresh piece, redolent of mint. This he put into his
mouth, and returned the packet to its resting-place. A slim, trim
figure, he stood looking round him reflectively.

“Now,” he muttered, “what about it?”




CHAPTER VIII.
KERRY CONSULTS THE ORACLE


The clock of Brixton Town Hall was striking the hour of 1 a.m. as Chief
Inspector Kerry inserted his key in the lock of the door of his house
in Spenser Road.

A light was burning in the hallway, and from the little dining-room on
the left the reflection of a cheerful fire danced upon the white paint
of the half-open door. Kerry deposited his hat, cane, and overall upon
the rack, and moving very quietly entered the room and turned on the
light. A modestly furnished and scrupulously neat apartment was
revealed. On the sheepskin rug before the fire a Manx cat was dozing
beside a pair of carpet slippers. On the table some kind of cold repast
was laid, the viands concealed under china covers. At a large bottle of
Guinness’s Extra Stout Kerry looked with particular appreciation.

He heaved a long sigh of contentment, and opened the bottle of stout.
Having poured out a glass of the black and foaming liquid and satisfied
an evidently urgent thirst, he explored beneath the covers, and
presently was seated before a spread of ham and tongue, tomatoes, and
bread and butter.

A door opened somewhere upstairs, and:

“Is that yoursel’, Dan?” inquired a deep but musical female voice.

“Sure it is,” replied Kerry; and no one who had heard the high official
tones of the imperious Chief Inspector would have supposed that they
could be so softened and modulated. “You should have been asleep hours
ago, Mary.”

“Have ye to go out again?”

“I have, bad luck; but don’t trouble to come down. I’ve all I want and
more.”

“If ’tis a new case I’ll come down.”

“It’s the devil’s own case; but you’ll get your death of cold.”

Sounds of movement in the room above followed, and presently footsteps
on the stairs. Mrs. Kerry, enveloped in a woollen dressing-gown, which
obviously belonged to the Inspector, came into the room. Upon her Kerry
directed a look from which all fierceness had been effaced, and which
expressed only an undying admiration. And, indeed, Mary Kerry was in
many respects a remarkable character. Half an inch taller than Kerry,
she fully merited the compliment designed by that trite apothegm, “a
fine woman.” Large-boned but shapely, as she came in with her long dark
hair neatly plaited, it seemed to her husband—who had remained her
lover—that he saw before him the rosy-cheeked lass whom ten years
before he had met and claimed on the chilly shores of Loch Broom. By
all her neighbors Mrs. Kerry was looked upon as a proud, reserved
person, who had held herself much aloof since her husband had become
Chief Inspector; and the reputation enjoyed by Red Kerry was that of an
aggressive and uncompanionable man. Now here was a lover’s meeting, not
lacking the shy, downward glance of dark eyes as steel-blue eyes
flashed frank admiration.

Kerry, who quarrelled with everybody except the Assistant Commissioner,
had only found one cause of quarrel with Mary. He was a devout Roman
Catholic, and for five years he had clung with the bull-dog tenacity
which was his to the belief that he could convert his wife to the faith
of Rome. She remained true to the Scottish Free Church, in whose
precepts she had been reared, and at the end of the five years Kerry
gave it up and admired her all the more for her Caledonian strength of
mind. Many and heated were the debates he had held with worthy Father
O’Callaghan respecting the validity of a marriage not solemnized by a
priest, but of late years he had grown reconciled to the parting of the
ways on Sunday morning; and as the early mass was over before the
Scottish service he was regularly to be seen outside a certain
Presbyterian chapel waiting for his heretical spouse.

He pulled her down on to his knee and kissed her.

“It’s twelve hours since I saw you,” he said.

She rested her arm on the back of the saddle-back chair, and her dark
head close beside Kerry’s fiery red one.

“I kenned ye had a new case on,” she said, “when it grew so late. How
long can ye stay?”

“An hour. No more. There’s a lot to do before the papers come out in
the morning. By breakfast time all England, including the murderer,
will know I’m in charge of the case. I wish I could muzzle the Press.”

“’Tis a murder, then? The Lord gi’e us grace. Ye’ll be wishin’ to tell
me?”

“Yes. I’m stumped!”

“Ye’ve time for a rest an’ a smoke. Put ye’re slippers on.”

“I’ve no time for that, Mary.”

She stood up and took the slippers from the hearth.

“Put ye’re slippers on,” she repeated firmly.

Kerry stooped without another word and began to unlace his brogues.
Meanwhile from a side-table his wife brought a silver tobacco-box and a
stumpy Irish clay. The slippers substituted for his shoes, Kerry
lovingly filled the cracked and blackened bowl with strong Irish twist,
which he first teased carefully in his palm. The bowl rested almost
under his nostrils when he put the pipe in his mouth, and how he
contrived to light it without burning his moustache was not readily
apparent. He succeeded, however, and soon was puffing clouds of pungent
smoke into the air with the utmost contentment.

“Now,” said his wife, seating herself upon the arm of the chair, “tell
me, Dan.”

Thereupon began a procedure identical to that which had characterized
the outset of every successful case of the Chief Inspector. He rapidly
outlined the complexities of the affair in old Bond Street, and Mary
Kerry surveyed the problem with a curious and almost fey detachment of
mind, which enabled her to see light where all was darkness to the man
on the spot. With the clarity of a trained observer Kerry described the
apartments of Kazmah, the exact place where the murdered man had been
found, and the construction of the rooms. He gave the essential points
from the evidence of the several witnesses, quoting the exact times at
which various episodes had taken place. Mary Kerry, looking straightly
before her with unseeing eyes, listened in silence until he ceased
speaking; then:

“There are really but twa rooms,” she said, in a faraway voice, “but
the second o’ these is parteetioned into three parts?”

“That’s it.”

“A door free the landing opens upon the fairst room, a door free a
passage opens upon the second. Where does yon passage lead?”

“From the main stair along beside Kazmah’s rooms to a small back stair.
This back stair goes from top to bottom of the building, from the end
of the same hallway as the main stair.”

“There is na either way out but by the front door?”

“No.”

“Then if the evidence o’ the Spinker man is above suspeecion, Mrs.
Irvin and this Kazmah were still on the premises when ye arrived?”

“Exactly. I gathered that much at Vine Street before I went on to Bond
Street. The whole block was surrounded five minutes after my arrival,
and it still is.”

“What ither offices are in this passage?”

“None. It’s a blank wall on the left, and one door on the right—the one
opening into the Kazmah office. There are other premises on the same
floor, but they are across the landing.”

“What premises?”

“A solicitor and a commission agent.”

“The floor below?”

“It’s all occupied by a modiste, Renan.”

“The top floor?”

“Cubanis Cigarette Company, a servants’ and an electrician.”

“Nae more?”

“No more.”

“Where does yon back stair open on the topmaist floor?”

“In a corridor similar to that alongside Kazmah’s. It has two windows
on the right overlooking a narrow roof and the top of the arcade, and
on the left is the Cubanis Cigarette Company. The other offices are
across the landing.”

Mary Kerry stared into space awhile.

“Kazmah and Mrs. Irvin could ha’ come down to the fairst floor, or gene
up to the thaird floor unseen by the Spinker man,” she said dreamily.

“But they couldn’t have reached the street, my dear!” cried Kerry.

“No—they couldn’a ha’ gained the street.”

She became silent again, her husband watching her expectantly. Then:

“If puir Sir Lucien Pyne was killed at a quarter after seven—the time
his watch was broken—the native sairvent did no’ kill him. Frae the
Spinker’s evidence the black man went awe’ before then,” she said.
“Mrs. Irvin?”

Kerry shook his head.

“From all accounts a slip of a woman,” he replied. “It was a strong
hand that struck the blow.”

“Kazmah?”

“Probably.”

“Mr. Quentin Gray came back wi’ a cab and went upstairs, free the
Spinker’s evidence, at aboot a quarter after seven, and came doon five
meenites later sair pale an’ fretful.”

Kerry surrounded himself and the speaker with wreaths of stifling
smoke.

“We have only the bare word of Mr. Gray that he didn’t go in again,
Mary; but I believe him. He’s a hot-headed fool, but square.”

“Then ’twas yon Kazmah,” announced Mrs. Kerry. “Who is Kazmah?”

Her husband laughed shortly.

“That’s the point at which I got stumped,” he replied. “We’ve heard of
him at the Yard, of course, and we know that under the cloak of a
dealer in Eastern perfumes he carried on a fortune-telling business. He
managed to avoid prosecution, though. It took me over an hour tonight
to explore the thought-reading mechanism; it’s a sort of Maskelyne’s
Mysteries worked from the inside room. But who Kazmah is or what’s his
nationality I know no more than the man in the moon.”

“Pairfume?” queried the far-away voice.

“Yes, Mary. The first room is a sort of miniature scent bazaar. There
are funny little imitation antique flasks of Kazmah preparations,
creams, perfumes and incense, also small square wooden boxes of a kind
of Turkish delight, and a stock of Egyptian mummy-beads, statuettes,
and the like, which may be genuine for all I know.”

“Nae books or letters?”

“Not a thing, except his own advertisements, a telephone directory, and
so on.”

“The inside office bureau?”

“Empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard!”

“The place was ransacked by the same folk that emptied the dead man’s
pockets so as tee leave nae clue,” pronounced the sibyl-like voice.
“Mr. Gray said he had choc’lates wi’ him. Where did he leave them?”

“Mary, you’re a wonder!” exclaimed the admiring Kerry. “The box was
lying on the divan in the first room where he said he had left it on
going out for a cab.”

“Does nane o’ the evidence show if Mrs. Irvin had been to Kazmah’s
before?”

“Yes. She went there fairly regularly to buy perfume.”

“No’ for the fortune-tellin’?”

“No. According to Mr. Gray, to buy perfume.”

“Had Mr. Gray been there wi’ her before?”

“No. Sir Lucien Pyne seems to have been her pretty constant companion.”

“Do ye suspect she was his lady-love?”

“I believe Mr. Gray suspects something of the kind.”

“And Mr. Gray?”

“He is not such an old friend as Sir Lucien was. But I fancy
nevertheless it was Mr. Gray that her husband doubted.”

“Do ye suspect the puir soul had cause, Dan?”

“No,” replied Kerry promptly; “I don’t. The boy is mad about her, but I
fancy she just liked his company. He’s the heir of Lord Wrexborough,
and Mrs. Irvin used to be a stage beauty. It’s a usual state of
affairs, and more often than not means nothing.”

“I dinna ken sich folk,” declared Mary Kerry. “They a’most desairve all
they get. They are bound tee come tee nae guid end. Where did ye say
Sir Lucien lived?”

“Albemarle Street; just round the corner.”

“Ye told me that he only kepit twa sairvents: a cook, hoosekeper, who
lived awe’, an’ a man—a foreigner?”

“A kind of half-baked Dago, named Juan Mareno. A citizen of the United
States according to his own account.”

“Ye dinna like Juan Mareno?”

“He’s a hateful swine!” flashed Kerry, with sudden venom. “I’m watching
Mareno very closely. Coombes is at work upon Sir Lucien’s papers. His
life was a bit of a mystery. He seems to have had no relations living,
and I can’t find that he even employed a solicitor.”

“Ye’ll be sairchin’ for yon Egyptian?”

“The servant? Yes. We’ll have him by the morning, and then we shall
know who Kazmah is. Meanwhile, in which of the offices is Kazmah
hiding?”

Mary Kerry was silent for so long that her husband repeated the
question:

“In which of the offices is Kazmah hiding?”

“In nane,” she said dreamily. “Ye surrounded the buildings too late, I
ken.”

“Eh!” cried Kerry, turning his head excitedly. “But the man Brisley was
at the door all night!”

“It doesna’ matter. They have escapit.”

Kerry scratched his close-cropped head in angry perplexity.

“You’re always right, Mary,” he said. “But hang me if—Never mind! When
we get the servant we’ll soon get Kazmah.”

“Aye,” murmured his wife. “If ye hae na’ got Kazmah the now.”

“But—Mary! This isn’t helping me! It’s mystifying me deeper than ever!”

“It’s no’ clear eno’, Dan. But for sure behind this mystery o’ the
death o’ Sir Lucien there’s a darker mystery still; sair dark. ’Tis the
biggest case ye ever had. Dinna look for Kazmah. Look tee find why the
woman went tee him; and try tee find the meanin’ o’ the sma’ window
behind the big chair.... Yes”—she seemed to be staring at some distant
visible object—“watch the man Mareno—”

“But—Mrs. Irvin—”

“Is in God’s guid keepin’—”

“You don’t think she’s dead!”

“She is wairse than dead. Her sins have found her out.” The fey light
suddenly left her eyes, and they became filled with tears. She turned
impulsively to her husband. “Oh, Dan! Ye must find her! Ye must find
her! Puir weak hairt—dinna ye ken how she is suffering!”

“My dear,” he said, putting his arms around her, “What is it? What is
it?”

She brushed the tears from her eyes and tried to smile. “’Tis something
like the second sight, Dan,” she answered simply. “And it’s escapit me
again. I a’most had the clue to it a’ oh, there’s some horrible
wickedness in it, an’ cruelty an’ shame.”

The clock on the mantel shelf began to peal. Kerry was watching his
wife’s rosy face with a mixture of loving admiration and wonder. She
looked so very bonny and placid and capable that he was puzzled anew at
the strange gift which she seemingly inherited from her mother, who had
been equally shrewd, equally comely and similarly endowed.

“God bless us all!” he said, kissed her heartily, and stood up. “Back
to bed you go, my dear. I must be off. There’s Mr. Irvin to see in the
morning, too.”

A few minutes later he was swinging through the deserted streets, his
mind wholly occupied with lover-like reflections to the exclusion of
those professional matters which properly should have been engaging his
attention. As he passed the end of a narrow court near the railway
station, the gleam of his silver mounted malacca attracted the
attention of a couple of loafers who were leaning one on either side of
an iron pillar in the shadow of the unsavory alley. Not another
pedestrian was in sight, and only the remote night-sounds of London
broke the silence.

Twenty paces beyond, the footpads silently closed in upon their prey.
The taller of the pair reached him first, only to receive a back-handed
blow full in his face which sent him reeling a couple of yards.

Round leapt the assaulted man to face his second assailant.

“If you two smarts really want handling,” he rapped ferociously, “say
the word, and I’ll bash you flat.”

As he turned, the light of a neighboring lamp shone down upon the
savage face, and a smothered yell came from the shorter ruffian:

“Blimey, Bill! It’s _Red Kerry!_”

Whereupon, as men pursued by devils, the pair made off like the wind!

Kerry glared after the retreating figures for a moment, and a grin of
fierce satisfaction revealed his gleaming teeth. He turned again and
swung on his way toward the main road. The incident had done him good.
It had banished domestic matters from his mind, and he was become again
the highly trained champion of justice, standing, an unseen buckler,
between society and the criminal.




CHAPTER IX.
A PACKET OF CIGARETTES


Following their dismissal by Chief Inspector Kerry, Seton and Gray
walked around to the latter’s chambers in Piccadilly. They proceeded in
silence, Gray too angry for speech, and Seton busy with reflections. As
the man admitted them:

“Has anyone ’phoned, Willis?” asked Gray.

“No one, sir.”

They entered a large room which combined the characteristics of a
library with those of a military gymnasium. Gray went to a side table
and mixed drinks. Placing a glass before Seton, he emptied his own at a
draught.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he said, “I should like to ring up
and see if by any possible chance there’s news of Rita.”

He walked out to the telephone, and Seton heard him making a call.
Then:

“Hullo! Is that you, Hinkes?” he asked.... “Yes, speaking. Is Mrs.
Irvin at home?”

A few moments of silence followed, and:

“Thanks! Good-bye,” said Gray.

He rejoined his friend.

“Nothing,” he reported, and made a gesture of angry resignation.
“Evidently Hinkes is still unaware of what has happened. Irvin hasn’t
returned yet. Seton, this business is driving me mad.”

He refilled his glass, and having looked in his cigarette-case, began
to ransack a small cupboard.

“Damn it all!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t got a cigarette in the place!”

“I don’t smoke them myself,” said Seton, “but I can offer you a
cheroot.”

“Thanks. They are a trifle too strong. Hullo! here are some.”

From the back of a shelf he produced a small, plain brown packet, and
took out of it a cigarette at which he stared oddly. Seton, smoking one
of the inevitable cheroots, watched him, tapping his teeth with the rim
of his eyeglass.

“Poor old Pyne!” muttered Gray, and, looking up, met the inquiring
glance. “Pyne left these here only the other day,” he explained
awkwardly. “I don’t know where he got them, but they are something very
special. I suppose I might as well.”

He lighted one, and, uttering a weary sigh, threw himself into a deep
leather-covered arm-chair. Almost immediately he was up again. The
telephone bell had rung. His eyes alight with hope, he ran out, leaving
the door open so that his conversation was again audible to the
visitor.

“Yes, yes, speaking. What?” His tone changed “Oh, it’s you, Margaret.
What?... Certainly, delighted. No, there’s nobody here but old Seton
Pasha. What? You’ve heard the fellows talk about him who were out
East.... Yes, that’s the chap.... Come right along.”

“You don’t propose to lionise me, I hope, Gray?” said Seton, as Gray
returned to his seat.

The other laughed.

“I forgot you could hear me,” he admitted. “It’s my cousin, Margaret
Halley. You’ll like her. She’s a tip-top girl, but eccentric. Goes in
for pilling.”

“Pilling?” inquired Seton gravely.

“Doctoring. She’s an M.R.C.S., and only about twenty-four or so.
Fearfully clever kid; makes me feel an infant.”

“Flat heels, spectacles, and a judicial manner?”

“Flat heels, yes. But not the other. She’s awfully pretty, and used to
look simply terrific in khaki. She was an M.O. in Serbia, you know, and
afterwards at some nurses’ hospital in Kent. She’s started in practice
for herself now round in Dover Street. I wonder what she wants.”

Silence fell between them; for, although prompted by different reasons,
both were undesirous of discussing the tragedy; and this silence
prevailed until the ringing of the doorbell announced the arrival of
the girl. Willis opening the door, she entered composedly, and Gray
introduced Seton.

“I am so glad to have met you at last, Mr. Seton,” she said laughingly.
“From Quentin’s many accounts I had formed the opinion that you were a
kind of _Arabian Nights_ myth.”

“I am glad to disappoint you,” replied Seton, finding something very
refreshing in the company of this pretty girl, who wore a creased
Burberry, and stray locks of whose abundant bright hair floated about
her face in the most careless fashion imaginable.

She turned to her cousin, frowning in a rather puzzled way.

“Whatever have you been burning here?” she asked. “There is such a
curious smell in the room.”

Gray laughed more heartily than he had laughed that night, glancing in
Seton’s direction.

“So much for your taste in cigars!” he cried

“Oh!” said Margaret, “I’m sure it’s not Mr. Seton’s cigar. It isn’t a
smell of tobacco.”

“I don’t believe they’re _made_ of tobacco!” cried Gray, laughing
louder yet, although his merriment was forced.

Seton smiled good-naturedly at the joke, but he had perceived at the
moment of Margaret’s entrance the fact that her gaiety also was
assumed. Serious business had dictated her visit, and he wondered the
more to note how deeply this odor, real or fancied, seemed to intrigue
her.

She sat down in the chair which Gray placed by the fireside, and her
cousin unceremoniously slid the brown packet of cigarettes across the
little table in her direction.

“Try one of these, Margaret,” he said. “They are great, and will quite
drown the unpleasant odor of which you complain.”

Whereupon the observant Seton saw a quick change take place in the
girl’s expression. She had the same clear coloring as her cousin, and
now this freshness deserted her cheeks, and her pretty face became
quite pale. She was staring at the brown packet. “Where did you get
them?” she asked quietly.

A smile faded from Gray’s lips. Those five words had translated him in
spirit to that green-draped room in which Sir Lucien Pyne was lying
dead. He glanced at Seton in the appealing way which sometimes made him
appear so boyish.

“Er—from Pyne,” he replied. “I must tell you, Margaret—”

“Sir Lucien Pyne?” she interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Not from Rita Irvin?”

Quentin Gray started upright in his chair.

“No! But why do you mention her?”

Margaret bit her lip in sudden perplexity.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She glanced apologetically toward Seton. He rose
immediately.

“My dear Miss Halley,” he said, “I perceive, indeed I had perceived all
along, that you have something of a private nature to communicate to
your cousin.”

But Gray stood up, and:

“Seton!... Margaret!” he said, looking from one to the other. “I mean
to say, Margaret, if you’ve anything to tell me about Rita... Have you?
Have you?”

He fixed his gaze eagerly upon her.

“I have—yes.”

Seton prepared to take his leave, but Gray impetuously thrust him back,
immediately turning again to his cousin.

“Perhaps you haven’t heard, Margaret,” he began. “I have heard what has
happened tonight—to Sir Lucien.”

Both men stared at her silently for a moment.

“Seton has been with me all the time,” said Gray. “If he will consent
to stay, with your permission, Margaret, I should like him to do so.”

“Why, certainly,” agreed the girl. “In fact, I shall be glad of his
advice.”

Seton inclined his head, and without another word resumed his seat.
Gray was too excited to sit down again. He stood on the tiger-skin rug
before the fender, watching his cousin and smoking furiously.

“Firstly, then,” continued Margaret, “please throw that cigarette in
the fire, Quentin.”

Gray removed the cigarette from between his lips, and stared at it
dazedly. He looked at the girl, and the clear grey eyes were watching
him with an inscrutable expression.

“Right-o!” he said awkwardly, and tossed the cigarette in the fire.
“You used to smoke like a furnace, Margaret. Is this some new ‘cult’?”

“I still smoke a great deal more than is good for me,” she confessed,
“but I don’t smoke opium.”

The effect of these words upon the two men who listened was curious.
Gray turned an angry glance upon the brown packet lying on the table,
and “Faugh!” he exclaimed, and drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve
began disgustedly to wipe his lips. Seton stared hard at the speaker,
tossed his cheroot into the fire, and taking up the packet withdrew a
cigarette and sniffed at it critically. Margaret watched him.

He tore the wrapping off, and tasted a strand of the tobacco.

“Good heavens!” he whispered. “Gray, these things are doped!”




CHAPTER X.
SIR LUCIEN’S STUDY WINDOW


Old Bond Street presented a gloomy and deserted prospect to Chief
Inspector Kerry as he turned out of Piccadilly and swung along toward
the premises of Kazmah. He glanced at the names on some of the shop
windows as he passed, and wondered if the furriers, jewelers and other
merchants dealing in costly wares properly appreciated the services of
the Metropolitan Police Force. He thought of the peacefully slumbering
tradesmen in their suburban homes, the safety of their stocks wholly
dependent upon the vigilance of that Unsleeping Eye—for to an
unsleeping eye he mentally compared the service of which he was a
member.

A constable stood on duty before the door of the block. Red Kerry was
known by sight and reputation to every member of the force, and the
constable saluted as the celebrated Chief Inspector appeared.

“Anything to report, constable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What?”

“The ambulance has been for the body, and another gentleman has been.”

Kerry stared at the man.

“Another gentleman? Who the devil’s the other gentleman?”

“I don’t know, sir. He came with Inspector Whiteleaf, and was inside
for nearly an hour.”

“Inspector Whiteleaf is off duty. What time was this?”

“Twelve-thirty, sir.”

Kerry chewed reflectively ere nodding to the man and passing on.

“Another gentleman!” he muttered, entering the hallway. “Why didn’t
Inspector Warley report this? Who the devil—” Deep in thought he walked
upstairs, finding his way by the light of the pocket torch which he
carried. A second constable was on duty at Kazmah’s door. He saluted.

“Anything to report?” rapped Kerry.

“Yes, sir. The body has been removed, and the gentleman with
Inspector—”

“Damn that for a tale! Describe this gentleman.”

“Rather tall, pale, dark, clean-shaven. Wore a fur-collared overcoat,
collar turned up. He was accompanied by Inspector Whiteleaf.”

“H’m. Anything else?”

“Yes. About an hour ago I heard a noise on the next floor—”

“Eh!” snapped Kerry, and shone the light suddenly into the man’s face
so that he blinked furiously.

“Eh? What kind of noise?”

“Very slight. Like something moving.”

“Like _something!_ Like _what_ thing? A cat or an elephant?”

“More like, say, a box or a piece of furniture.”

“And you did—what?”

“I went up to the top landing and listened.”

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing at all.”

Chief Inspector Kerry chewed audibly.

“All quiet?” he snapped.

“Absolutely. But I’m certain I heard something all the same.”

“How long had Inspector Whiteleaf and this dark horse in the fur coat
been gone at the time you heard the noise?”

“About half an hour, sir.”

“Do you think the noise came from the landing or from one of the
offices above?”

“An office I should say. It was very dim.”

Chief Inspector Kerry pushed upon the broken door, and walked into the
rooms of Kazmah. Flashing the ray of his torch on the wall, he found
the switch and snapped up the lights. He removed his overall and tossed
it on a divan with his cane. Then, tilting his bowler further forward,
he thrust his hands into his reefer pockets, and stood staring toward
the door, beyond which lay the room of the murder, in darkness.

“Who is he?” he muttered. “What’s it mean?”

Taking up the torch, he walked through and turned on the lights in the
inner rooms. For a long time he stood staring at the little square
window low down behind the ebony chair, striving to imagine uses for it
as his wife had urged him to do. The globular green lamp in the second
apartment was worked by three switches situated in the inside room, and
he had discovered that in this way the visitor who came to consult
Kazmah was treated to the illusion of a gradually falling darkness.
Then, the door in the first partition being opened, whoever sat in the
ebony chair would become visible by the gradual uncovering of a light
situated above the chair. On this light being covered again the figure
would apparently fade away.

It was ingenious, and, so far, quite clear. But two things badly
puzzled the inquirer; the little window down behind the chair, and the
fact that all the arrangements for raising and lowering the lights were
situated not in the narrow chamber in which Kazmah’s chair stood, and
in which Sir Lucien had been found, but in the room behind it—the room
with which the little window communicated.

The table upon which the telephone rested was set immediately under
this mysterious window, the window was provided with a green blind, and
the switchboard controlling the complicated lighting scheme was also
within reach of anyone seated at the table.

Kerry rolled mint gum from side to side of his mouth, and absently
tried the handle of the door opening out from this interior
room—evidently the office of the establishment—into the corridor. He
knew it to be locked. Turning, he walked through the suite and out on
to the landing, passing the constable and going upstairs to the top
floor, torch in hand.

From the main landing he walked along the narrow corridor until he
stood at the head of the back stairs. The door nearest to him bore the
name: “Cubanis Cigarette Company.” He tried the handle. The door was
locked, as he had anticipated. Kneeling down, he peered into the
keyhole, holding the electric torch close beside his face and chewing
industriously.

Ere long he stood up, descended again, but by the back stair, and stood
staring reflectively at the door communicating with Kazmah’s inner
room. Then walking along the corridor to where the man stood on, the
landing, he went in again to the mysterious apartments, but only to get
his cane and his overall and to turn out the lights.

Five minutes later he was ringing the late Sir Lucien’s door-bell.

A constable admitted him, and he walked straight through into the study
where Coombes, looking very tired but smiling undauntedly, sat at a
littered table studying piles of documents.

“Anything to report?” rapped Kerry.

“The man, Mareno, has gone to bed, and the expert from the Home office
has been—”

Inspector Kerry brought his cane down with a crash upon the table,
whereat Coombes started nervously.

“So that’s it!” he shouted furiously, “an ‘expert from the Home
office’! So that’s the dark horse in the fur coat. Coombes! I’m fed up
to the back teeth with this gun from the Home office! If I’m not to
have entire charge of the case I’ll throw it up. I’ll stand for no
blasted overseer checking my work! Wait till I see the Assistant
Commissioner! What the devil has the job to do with the Home office!”

“Can’t say,” murmured Coombes. “But he’s evidently a big bug from the
way Whiteleaf treated him. He instructed me to stay in the kitchen and
keep an eye on Mareno while he prowled about in here.”

“Instructed you!” cried Kerry, his teeth gleaming and his steel-blue
eyes creating upon Coombes’ mind an impression that they were emitting
sparks. “_Instructed_ you! I’ll ask you a question, Detective-Sergeant
Coombes: Who is in charge of this case?”

“Well, I thought you were.”

“You _thought_ I was?”

“Well, you are.”

“I am? Very well—you were saying—?”

“I was saying that I went into the kitchen—”

“Before that! Something about ‘instructed.’”

Poor Coombes smiled pathetically.

“Look here,” he said, bravely meeting the ferocious glare of his
superior, “as man to man. What could I do?”

“You could stop smiling!” snapped Kerry. “Hell!” He paced several times
up and down the room. “Go ahead, Coombes.”

“Well, there’s nothing much to report. I stayed in the kitchen, and the
man from the Home office was in here alone for about half an hour.”

“Alone?”

“Inspector Whiteleaf stayed in the dining-room.”

“Had he been ‘instructed’ too?”

“I expect so. I think he just came along as a sort of guide.”

“Ah!” muttered Kerry savagely, “a sort of guide! Any idea what the
bogey man did in here?”

“He opened the window. I heard him.”

“That’s funny. It’s exactly what I’m going to do! This smart from
Whitehall hasn’t got a corner in notions yet, Coombes.”

The room was a large and lofty one, and had been used by a former
tenant as a studio. The toplights had been roofed over by Sir Lucien,
however, but the raised platform, approached by two steps, which had
probably been used as a model’s throne, was a permanent fixture of the
apartment. It was backed now by bookcases, except where a blue plush
curtain was draped before a French window.

Kerry drew the curtain back, and threw open the folding leaves of the
window. He found himself looking out upon the leads of Albemarle
Street. No stars and no moon showed through the grey clouds draping the
wintry sky, but a dim and ghostly half-light nevertheless rendered the
ugly expanse visible from where he stood.

On one side loomed a huge tank, to the brink of which a rickety wooden
ladder invited the explorer to ascend. Beyond it were a series of iron
gangways and ladders forming part of the fire emergency arrangements of
the neighboring institution. Straight ahead a section of building
jutted up and revealed two small windows, which seemed to regard him
like watching eyes.

He walked out on to the roof, looking all about him. Beyond the tank
opened a frowning gully—the Arcade connecting Albemarle Street with old
Bond Street; on the other hand, the scheme of fire gangways was
continued. He began to cross the leads, going in the direction of Bond
Street. Coombes watched him from the study. When he came to the more
northerly of the two windows which had attracted his attention, he
knelt down and flashed the ray of his torch through the glass.

A kind of small warehouse was revealed, containing stacks of packages.
Immediately inside the window was a rough wooden table, and on this
table lay a number of smaller packages, apparently containing
cigarettes.

Kerry turned his attention to the fastening of the window. A glance
showed him that it was unlocked. Resting the torch on the leads, he
grasped the sash and gently raised the window, noting that it opened
almost noiselessly. Then, taking up the torch again, he stooped and
stepped in on to the table below.

It moved slightly beneath his weight. One of the legs was shorter than
its fellows. But he reached the floor as quietly as possible, and
instantly snapped off the light of the torch.

A heavy step sounded from outside—someone was mounting the stairs—and a
disk of light suddenly appeared upon the ground-glass panel of the
door.

Kerry stood quite still, chewing steadily.

“Who’s there?” came the voice of the constable posted on Kazmah’s
landing.

The inspector made no reply.

“Is there anyone here?” cried the man.

The disk of light disappeared, and the alert constable could be heard
moving along the corridor to inspect the other offices. But the ray had
shone upon the frosted glass long enough to enable Kerry to read the
words painted there in square black letters. They had appeared
reversed, of course, and had read thus:

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XI.
THE DRUG SYNDICATE


At six-thirty that morning Margaret Halley was aroused by her maid—the
latter but half awake—and sitting up in bed and switching on the lamp,
she looked at the card which the servant had brought to her, and read
the following:

CHIEF INSPECTOR KERRY,
C.I.D.
New Scotland Yard, S.W.I.


“Oh, dear,” she said sleepily, “what an appallingly early visitor. Is
the bath ready yet, Janet?”

“I’m afraid not,” replied the maid, a plain, elderly woman of the
old-fashioned useful servant type. “Shall I take a kettle into the
bathroom?”

“Yes—that will have to do. Tell Inspector Kerry that I shall not be
long.”

Five minutes later Margaret entered her little consulting-room, where
Kerry, having adjusted his tie, was standing before the mirror in the
overmantle, staring at a large photograph of the charming lady doctor
in military uniform. Kerry’s fierce eyes sparkled appreciatively as his
glance rested on the tall figure arrayed in a woollen dressing-gown,
the masculine style of which by no means disguised the beauty of
Margaret’s athletic figure. She had hastily arranged her bright hair
with deliberate neglect of all affectation. She belonged to that
ultra-modern school which scorns to sue masculine admiration, but which
cannot dispense with it nevertheless. She aspired to be assessed upon
an intellectual basis, an ambition which her unfortunate good looks
rendered difficult of achievement.

“Good morning, Inspector,” she said composedly. “I was expecting you.”

“Really, miss?” Kerry stared curiously. “Then you know what I’ve come
about?”

“I think so. Won’t you sit down? I am afraid the room is rather cold.
Is it about—Sir Lucien Pyne?”

“Well,” replied Kerry, “it concerns him certainly. I’ve been in
communication by telephone with Hinkes, Mr. Monte Irvin’s butler, and
from him I learned that you were professionally attending Mrs. Irvin.”

“I was not her regular medical adviser, but—”

Margaret hesitated, glancing rapidly at the Inspector, and then down at
the writing-table before which she was seated. She began to tap the
blotting-pad with an ivory paper-knife. Kerry was watching her
intently.

“Upon your evidence, Miss Halley,” he said rapidly, “may depend the
life of the missing woman.”

“Oh!” cried Margaret, “whatever can have happened to her? I rang up as
late as two o’clock this morning; after that I abandoned hope.”

“There’s something underlying the case that I don’t understand, miss. I
look to you to put me wise.”

She turned to him impulsively.

“I will tell you all I know, Inspector,” she said. “I will be perfectly
frank with you.”

“Good!” rapped Kerry. “Now—you have known Mrs. Monte Irvin for some
time?”

“For about two years.”

“You didn’t know her when she was on the stage?”

“No. I met her at a Red Cross concert at which she sang.”

“Do you think she loved her husband?”

“I know she did.”

“Was there any—prior attachment?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Mr. Quentin Gray?”

Margaret smiled, rather mirthlessly.

“He is my cousin, Inspector, and it was I who introduced him to Rita
Irvin. I sincerely wish I had never done so. He lost his head
completely.”

“There was nothing in Mrs. Irvin’s attitude towards him to justify her
husband’s jealousy?”

“She was always frightfully indiscreet, Inspector, but nothing more.
You see, she is greatly admired, and is used to the company of silly,
adoring men. Her husband doesn’t really understand the ways of these
Bohemian folks. I knew it would lead to trouble sooner or later.”

“Ah!”

Chief Inspector Kerry thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Now—Sir Lucien?”

Margaret tapped more rapidly with the paper-knife.

“Sir Lucien belonged to a set of which Rita had been a member during
her stage career. I think—he admired her; in fact, I believe he had
offered her marriage. But she did not care for him in the least—in that
way.”

“Then in what way did she care for him?” rapped Kerry.

“Well—now we are coming to the point.” Momentarily she hesitated, then:
“They were both addicted—”

“Yes?”

“—to drugs.”

“Eh?” Kerry’s eyes grew hard and fierce in a moment. “What drugs?”

“All sorts of drugs. Shortly after I became acquainted with Rita Irvin
I learned that she was a victim of the drug habit, and I tried to cure
her. I regret to say that I failed. At that time she had acquired a
taste for opium.”

Kerry said not a word, and Margaret raised her head and looked at him
pathetically.

“I can see that you have no pity for the victims of this ghastly vice,
Inspector Kerry,” she said.

“I haven’t!” he snapped fiercely. “I admit I haven’t, miss. It’s bad
enough in the heathens, but for an Englishwoman to dope herself is
downright unchristian and beastly.”

“Yet I have come across so many of these cases, during the war and
since, that I have begun to understand how easy, how dreadfully easy it
is, for a woman especially, to fall into the fatal habit. Bereavement
or that most frightful of all mental agonies, suspense, will too often
lead the poor victim into the path that promises forgetfulness. Rita
Irvin’s case is less excusable. I think she must have begun drug-taking
because of the mental and nervous exhaustion resulting from late hours
and over-much gaiety. The demands of her profession proved too great
for her impaired nervous energy, and she sought some stimulant which
would enable her to appear bright on the stage when actually she should
have been recuperating, in sleep, that loss of vital force which can be
recuperated in no other way.”

“But _opium!_” snapped Kerry.

“I am afraid her other drug habits had impaired her will, and shaken
her self-control. She was tempted to try opium by its promise of a new
and novel excitement.”

“Her husband, I take it, was ignorant of all this?”

“I believe he was. Quentin—Mr. Gray—had no idea of it either.”

“Then it was Sir Lucien Pyne who was in her confidence in the matter?”

Margaret nodded slowly, still tapping the blotting-pad.

“He used to accompany her to places where drugs could be obtained, and
on several occasions—I cannot say how many—I believe he went with her
to some den in Chinatown. It may have been due to Mr. Irvin’s discovery
that his wife could not satisfactorily account for some of these
absences from home which led him to suspect her fidelity.”

“Ah!” said Kerry hardly, “I shouldn’t wonder. And now”—he thrust out a
pointing finger—“where did she get these drugs?”

Margaret met the fierce stare composedly.

“I have said that I shall be quite frank,” she replied. “In my opinion
she obtained them from Kazmah.”

“Kazmah!” shouted Kerry. “Excuse me, miss, but I see I’ve been wearing
blinkers without knowing it! Kazmah’s was a dope-shop?”

“That has been my belief for a long time, Inspector. I may add that I
have never been able to obtain a shred of evidence to prove it. I am so
keenly interested in seeing the people who pander to this horrible vice
unmasked and dealt with as they merit, that I have tried many times to
find out if my suspicion was correct.”

Inspector Kerry was writhing his shoulders excitedly. “Did you ever
visit Kazmah?” he asked.

“Yes. I asked Rita Irvin to take me, but she refused, and I could see
that the request embarrassed her. So I went alone.”

“Describe exactly what took place.”

Margaret Halley stared reflectively at the blotting-pad for a moment,
and then described a typical seance at Kazmah’s. In conclusion:

“As I came away,” she said, “I bought a bottle of every kind of perfume
on sale, some of the incense, and also a box of sweetmeat; but they all
proved to be perfectly harmless. I analyzed them.”

Kerry’s eyes glistened with admiration.

“We could do with you at the Yard, miss,” he said. “Excuse me for
saying so.”

Margaret smiled rather wanly.

“Now—this man Kazmah,” resumed the Chief Inspector. “Did you ever see
him again?”

“Never. I have been trying for months and months to find out who he
is.”

Kerry’s face became very grim.

“About ten trained men are trying to find that out at the present
moment!” he rapped. “Do you think he wore a make-up?”

“He may have done so,” Margaret admitted. “But his features were
obviously undisguised, and his eyes one would recognize anywhere. They
were larger than any human eyes I have ever seen.”

“He couldn’t have been the Egyptian who looked after the shop, for
instance?”

“Impossible! He did not remotely resemble him. Besides, the man to whom
you refer remained outside to receive other visitors. Oh, that’s out of
the question, Inspector.”

“The light was very dim?”

“Very dim indeed, and Kazmah never once raised his head. Indeed, except
for a dignified gesture of greeting and one of dismissal, he never
moved. His immobility was rather uncanny.”

Kerry began to pace up and down the narrow room, and:

“He bore no resemblance to the late Sir Lucien Pyne, for instance?” he
rapped.

Margaret laughed outright and her laughter was so inoffensive and so
musical that the Chief Inspector laughed also.

“That’s more hopeless than ever!” she said. “Poor Sir Lucien had
strong, harsh features and rather small eyes. He wore a moustache, too.
But Sir Lucien, I feel sure, was one of Kazmah’s clients.”

“Ah!” said Kerry. “And what leads you to suppose Miss Halley, that this
Kazmah dealt in drugs?”

“Well, you see, Rita Irvin was always going there to buy perfumes, and
she frequently sent her maid as well.”

“But”—Kerry stared—“you say that the perfume was harmless.”

“That which was sold to casual visitors was harmless, Inspector. But I
strongly suspect that regular clients were supplied with something
quite different. You see, I know no fewer than thirty unfortunate women
in the West End of London alone who are simply helpless slaves to
various drugs, and I think it more than a coincidence that upon their
dressing-tables I have almost invariably found one or more of Kazmah’s
peculiar antique flasks.”

Chief Inspector Kerry’s jaw muscles protruded conspicuously.

“You speak of patients?” he asked.

Margaret nodded her head.

“When a woman becomes addicted to the drug habit,” she explained, “she
sometimes shuns her regular medical adviser. I have many patients who
came to me originally simply because they dared not face their family
doctor. In fact, since I gave up Army work, my little practice has
threatened to develop into that of a drug-habit specialist.”

“Have you taxed any of these people with obtaining drugs from Kazmah?”

“Not directly. It would have been undiplomatic. But I have tried to
surprise them into telling me. Unfortunately, these poor people are as
cunning as any other kind of maniac, for, of course, it becomes a form
of mania. They recognize that confession might lead to a stoppage of
supplies—the eventuality they most dread.”

“Did you examine the contents of any of these flasks found on
dressing-tables?”

“I rarely had an opportunity; but when I did they proved to contain
perfume when they contained anything.”

“H’m,” mused Kerry, and although in deference to Margaret, he had
denied himself chewing-gum, his jaws worked automatically. “I gather
that Mrs. Monte Irvin had expressed a wish to see you last night?”

“Yes. Apparently she was threatened with a shortage of cocaine.”

“Cocaine was her drug?”

“One of them. She had tried them all, poor, silly girl! You must
understand that for a habitual drug-taker suddenly to be deprived of
drugs would lead to complete collapse, perhaps death. And during the
last few days I had noticed a peculiar nervous symptom in Rita Irvin
which had interested me. Finally, the day before yesterday, she
confessed that her usual source of supply had been closed to her. Her
words were very vague, but I gathered that some form of coercion was
being employed.”

“With what object?”

“I have no idea. But she used the words, ‘They will drive me mad,’ and
seemed to be in a dangerously nervous condition. She said that she was
going to make a final attempt to obtain a supply of the poison which
had become indispensable to her. ‘I cannot do without it!’ she said.
‘But if they refuse, will you give me some?’”

“What did you say?”

“I begged of her, as I had done on many previous occasions, to place
herself in my hands. But she evaded a direct answer, as is the way of
one addicted to this vice. ‘If I cannot get some by tomorrow,’ she
said, ‘I shall go mad, or dead. Can I rely on you?’”

“I told her that I would prescribe cocaine for her on the distinct
understanding that from the first dose she was to place herself under
my care for a cure.”

“She agreed?”

“She agreed. Yesterday afternoon, while I was away at an important
case, she came here. Poor Rita!” Margaret’s soft voice trembled.
“Look—she left this note.”

From a letter-rack she took a square sheet of paper and handed it to
the Chief Inspector. He bent his fierce eyes upon the writing—large,
irregular and shaky.

“‘Dear Margaret,’” he read aloud. “‘Why aren’t you at home? I am wild
with pain, and feel I am going mad. Come to me _directly_ you return,
and bring enough to keep me alive. I—’, Hullo! there’s no finish!”

He glanced up from the page. Margaret Halley’s eyes were dim.

“She despaired of my coming and went to Kazmah,” she said. “Can you
doubt that that was what she went for?”

“No!” snapped Kerry savagely, “I can’t. But do you mean to tell me,
Miss Halley, that Mrs. Irvin couldn’t get cocaine anywhere else? I know
for a fact that it’s smuggled in regularly, and there’s more than one
receiver.”

Margaret looked at him strangely.

“I know it, too, Inspector,” she said quietly. “Owing to the lack of
enterprise on the part of our British drug-houses, even reputable
chemists are sometimes dependent upon illicit stock from Japan and
America. But do you know that the price of these smuggled drugs has
latterly become so high as to be prohibitive in many cases?”

“I don’t. What are you driving at, miss?”

“At this: Somebody had made a corner in contraband drugs. The most
wicked syndicate that ever was formed has got control of the lives of,
it may be, thousands of drug-slaves!”

Kerry’s teeth closed with a sharp snap.

“At last,” he said, “I see where the smart from the Home office comes
in.”

“The Secretary of State has appointed a special independent
commissioner to inquire into this hellish traffic,” replied Margaret
quietly. “I am glad to say that I have helped in getting this done by
the representations which I have made to my uncle, Lord Wrexborough.
But I give you my word, Inspector Kerry, that I have withheld nothing
from you any more than from him.”

“Him!” snapped Kerry, eyes fiercely ablaze.

“From the Home Office representative—before whom I have already given
evidence.”

Chief Inspector Kerry took up his hat, cane and overall from the chair
upon which he had placed them and, his face a savage red mask, bowed
with a fine courtesy. He burned to learn particulars; he disdained to
obtain them from a woman.

“Good morning, Miss Halley,” he said. “I am greatly indebted to you.”

He walked stiffly from the room and out of the flat without waiting for
a servant to open the door.




PART SECOND
MRS. SIN




CHAPTER XII.
THE MAID OF THE MASQUE


The past life of Mrs. Monte Irvin, in which at this time three distinct
groups of investigators became interested—namely, those of Whitehall,
Scotland Yard, and Fleet Street—was of a character to have horrified
the prudish, but to have excited the compassion of the wise.

Daughter of a struggling suburban solicitor, Rita Esden, at the age of
seventeen, from a delicate and rather commonplace child began to
develop into a singularly pretty girl of an elusive and fascinating
type of beauty, almost ethereal in her dainty coloring, and possessed
of large and remarkably fine eyes, together with a wealth of copper-red
hair, a crown which seemed too heavy for her slender neck to support.
Her father viewed her increasing charms and ever-growing list of
admirers with the gloomy apprehension of a disappointed man who had
come to look upon each gift of the gods as a new sorrow cunningly
disguised. Her mother, on the contrary, fanned the girl’s natural
vanity and ambition with a success which rarely attended the
enterprises of this foolish old woman, and Rita proving to be endowed
with a moderately good voice, a stage career was determined upon
without reference to the contrary wishes of Mr. Esden.

Following the usual brief “training” which is counted sufficient for an
aspirant to musical comedy honors, Rita, by the prefixing of two
letters to her name, set out to conquer the play-going world as Rita
Dresden.

Two years of hard work and disappointment served to dispel the girl’s
illusions. She learned to appreciate at its true value that masculine
admiration which, in an unusual degree, she had the power to excite.
Those of her admirers who were in a position to assist her
professionally were only prepared to use their influence upon terms
which she was unprepared to accept. Those whose intentions were
strictly creditable, by some malignancy of fate, possessed no influence
whatever. She came to regard herself as a peculiarly unlucky girl,
being ignorant of the fact that Fortune, an impish hierophant, imposes
identical tests upon every candidate who aspires to the throne of a
limelight princess.

Matters stood thus when a new suitor appeared in the person of Sir
Lucien Pyne. When his card was brought up to Rita, her heart leaped
because of a mingled emotion of triumph and fear which the sight of the
baronet’s name had occasioned. He was a director of the syndicate in
whose production she was playing—a man referred to with awe by every
girl in the company as having it in his power to make or mar a
professional reputation. Not that he took any active part in the
affairs of the concern; on the contrary, he was an aristocrat who held
himself aloof from all matters smacking of commerce, but at the same
time one who invested his money shrewdly. Sir Lucien’s protegee of
today was London’s idol of tomorrow, and even before Rita had spoken to
him she had fought and won a spiritual battle between her true self and
that vain, admiration-loving Rita Dresden who favored capitulation.

She knew that Sir Lucien’s card represented a signpost at the
cross-roads where many a girl, pretty but not exceptionally talented,
had hesitated with beating heart. It was no longer a question of
remaining a member of the chorus (and understudy for a small part) or
of accepting promotion to “lead” in a new production; it was that of
accepting whatever Sir Lucien chose to offer—or of retiring from the
profession so far as this powerful syndicate was concerned.

Such was the reputation enjoyed at this time by Sir Lucien Pyne among
those who had every opportunity of forming an accurate opinion.

Nevertheless, Rita was determined not to succumb without a struggle.
She did not count herself untalented nor a girl to be lightly valued,
and Sir Lucien might prove to be less black than rumor had painted him.
As presently appeared, both in her judgment of herself and in that of
Sir Lucien, she was at least partially correct. He was very courteous,
very respectful, and highly attentive.

Her less favored companions smiled significantly when the familiar
Rolls-Royce appeared at the stage door night after night, never
doubting that Rita Dresden was chosen to “star” in the forthcoming
production, but, with rare exceptions, frankly envying her this good
fortune.

Rita made no attempt to disillusion them, recognizing that it must
fail. She was resigned to being misjudged. If she could achieve success
at that price, success would have been purchased cheaply.

That Sir Lucien was deeply infatuated she was not slow to discover, and
with an address perfected by experience and a determination to avoid
the easy path inherited from a father whose scrupulous honesty had
ruined his professional prospects, she set to work to win esteem as
well as admiration.

Sir Lucien was first surprised, then piqued, and finally interested by
such unusual tactics. The second phase was the dangerous one for Rita,
and during a certain luncheon at Romanos her fate hung in the balance.
Sir Lucien realized that he was in peril of losing his head over this
tantalizingly pretty girl who gracefully kept him at a distance,
fencing with an adroitness which was baffling, and Sir Lucien Pyne had
set out with no intention of doing anything so preposterous as falling
in love. Keenly intuitive, Rita scented danger and made a bold move.
Carelessly rolling a bread-crumb along the cloth:

“I am giving up the stage when the run finishes,” she said.

“Indeed,” replied Sir Lucien imperturbably. “Why?”

“I am tired of stage life. I have been invited to go and live with my
uncle in New York and have decided to accept. You see”—she bestowed
upon him a swift glance of her brilliant eyes—“men in the theatrical
world are not all like you. Real friends, I mean. It isn’t very nice,
sometimes.”

Sir Lucien deliberately lighted a cigarette. If Rita was bluffing, he
mused, she had the pluck to make good her bluff. And if she did so? He
dropped the extinguished match upon a plate. Did he care? He glanced at
the girl, who was smiling at an acquaintance on the other side of the
room. Fortune’s wheel spins upon a needle point. By an artistic
performance occupying less than two minutes, but suggesting that Rita
possessed qualities which one day might spell success, she had decided
her fate. Her heart was beating like a hammer in her breast, but she
preserved an attitude of easy indifference. Without for a moment
believing in the American uncle, Sir Lucien did believe, correctly,
that Rita Dresden was about to elude him. He realized, too, that he was
infinitely more interested than he had ever been hitherto, and more
interested than he had intended to become.

This seemingly trivial conversation was a turning point, and twelve
months later Rita Dresden was playing the title rôle in _The Maid of
the Masque_. Sir Lucien had discovered himself to be really in love
with her, and he might quite possibly have offered her marriage even if
a dangerous rival had not appeared to goad him to that desperate
leap—for so he regarded it. Monte Irvin, although considerably Rita’s
senior, had much to commend him in the eyes of the girl—and in the eyes
of her mother, who still retained a curious influence over her
daughter. He was much more wealthy than Pyne, and although the latter
was a baronet, Irvin was certain to be knighted ere long, so that Rita
would secure the appendage of “Lady” in either case. Also, his
reputation promised a more reliable husband than Sir Lucien could be
expected to make. Moreover, Rita liked him, whereas she had never
sincerely liked and trusted Sir Lucien. And there was a final reason—of
which Mrs. Esden knew nothing.

On the first night that Rita had been entrusted with a part of any
consequence—and this was shortly after the conversation at Romanos—she
had discovered herself to be in a state of hopeless panic. All her
scheming and fencing would have availed her nothing if she were to
break down at the critical moment. It was an eventuality which Sir
Lucien had foreseen, and he seized the opportunity at once of securing
a new hold upon the girl and of rendering her more pliable than he had
hitherto found her to be. At this time the idea of marriage had not
presented itself to Sir Lucien.

Some hours before the performance he detected her condition of abject
fright... and from his waistcoat pocket he took a little gold
snuff-box.

At first the girl declined to follow advice which instinctively she
distrusted, and Sir Lucien was too clever to urge it upon her. But he
glanced casually at his wrist-watch—and poor Rita shuddered. The gold
box was hidden again in the baronet’s pocket.

To analyze the process which thereupon took place in Rita’s mind would
be a barren task, since its result was a foregone conclusion. Daring
ambition rather than any merely abstract virtue was the keynote of her
character. She had rebuffed the advances of Sir Lucien as she had
rebuffed others, primarily because her aim in life was set higher than
mere success in light comedy. This she counted but a means to a more
desirable end—a wealthy marriage. To the achievement of such an
alliance the presence of an accepted lover would be an obstacle; and
true love Rita Dresden had never known. Yet, short of this final
sacrifice which some women so lightly made, there were few scruples
which she was not prepared to discard in furtherance of her designs.
Her morality, then, was diplomatic, for the vice of ambition may
sometimes make for virtue.

Rita’s vivacious beauty and perfect self-possession on the fateful
night earned her a permanent place in stageland: Rita Dresden became a
“star.” She had won a long and hard-fought battle; but in avoiding one
master she had abandoned herself to another.

The triumph of her debut left her strangely exhausted. She dreaded the
coming of the second night almost as keenly as she had dreaded the
ordeal of the first. She struggled, poor victim, and only increased her
terrors. Not until the clock showed her that in twenty minutes she must
make her first entrance did she succumb. But Sir Lucien’s gold
snuff-box lay upon her dressing-table—and she was trembling. When at
last she heard the sustained note of the oboe in the orchestra giving
the pitch to the answering violins, she raised the jewelled lid of the
box.

So she entered upon the path which leads down to destruction, and since
to conjure with the drug which pharmacists know as methylbenzoyl
ecgonine is to raise the demon Insomnia, ere long she found herself
exploring strange by-paths in quest of sleep.

By the time that she was entrusted with the leading part in _The Maid
of the Masque_, she herself did not recognize how tenacious was the
hold which this fatal habit had secured upon her. In the company of Sir
Lucien Pyne she met other devotees, and for a time came to regard her
unnatural mode of existence as something inseparable from the Bohemian
life. To the horrible side of it she was blind.

It was her meeting with Monte Irvin during the run of this successful
play which first awakened a dawning comprehension; not because she
ascribed his admiration to her artificial vivacity, but because she
realized the strength of the link subsisting between herself and Sir
Lucien. She liked and respected Irvin, and as a result began to view
her conduct from a new standpoint. His life was so entirely open and
free from reproach while part of her own was dark and secret. She
conceived a desire to be done with that dark and secret life.

This was a shadow-land over which Sir Lucien Pyne presided, and which
must be kept hidden from Monte Irvin; and it was not until she thus
contemplated cutting herself adrift from it all that she perceived the
Gordian knot which bound her to the drug coterie. How far, yet how
smoothly, by all but imperceptible stages she had glided down the
stream since that night when the gold box had lain upon her
dressing-table! Kazmah’s drug store in Bond Street had few secrets for
her; or so she believed. She knew that the establishment of the
strange, immobile Egyptian was a source from which drugs could always
be obtained; she knew that the dream-reading business served some
double purpose; but she did not know the identity of Kazmah.

Two of the most insidious drugs familiar to modern pharmacy were wooing
her to slavery, and there was no strong hand to hold her back. Even the
presence of her mother might have offered some slight deterrent at this
stage of Rita’s descent, but the girl had quitted her suburban home as
soon as her salary had rendered her sufficiently independent to do so,
and had established herself in a small but elegant flat situated in the
heart of theatreland.

But if she had walked blindly into the clutches of cocaine and veronal,
her subsequent experiments with _chandu_ were prompted by indefensible
curiosity, and a false vanity which urged her to do everything that was
“done” by the ultra-smart and vicious set of which she had become a
member.

Her first introduction to opium-smoking was made under the auspices of
an American comedian then appearing in London, an old devotee of the
poppy, and it took place shortly after Sir Lucien Pyne had proposed
marriage to Rita. This proposal she had not rejected outright; she had
pleaded time for consideration. Monte Irvin was away, and Rita secretly
hoped that on his return he would declare himself. Meanwhile she
indulged in every new craze which became fashionable among her
associates. A _chandu_ party took place at the American’s flat in Duke
Street, and Rita, who had been invited, and who had consented to go
with Sir Lucien Pyne, met there for the first time the woman variously
known as “Lola” and “Mrs. Sin.”




CHAPTER XIII.
A CHANDU PARTY


From the restaurant at which she had had supper with Sir Lucien, Rita
proceeded to Duke Street. Alighting from Pyne’s car at the door, they
went up to the flat of the organizer of the opium party—Mr. Cyrus
Kilfane. One other guest was already present—a slender, fair woman, who
was introduced by the American as Mollie Gretna, but whose weakly
pretty face Rita recognized as that of a notorious society divorcée,
foremost in the van of every new craze, a past-mistress of the smartest
vices.

Kilfane had sallow, expressionless features and drooping, light-colored
eyes. His straw-hued hair, brushed back from a sloping brow, hung
lankly down upon his coat-collar. Long familiarity with China’s ruling
vice and contact with those who practiced it had brought about that
mysterious physical alteration—apparently reflecting a mental change—so
often to be seen in one who has consorted with Chinamen. Even the light
eyes seemed to have grown slightly oblique; the voice, the
unimpassioned greeting, were those of a son of Cathay. He carried
himself with a stoop and had a queer, shuffling gait.

“Ah, my dear daughter,” he murmured in a solemnly facetious manner,
“how glad I am to welcome you to our poppy circle.”

He slowly turned his half-closed eyes in Pyne’s direction, and slowly
turned them back again.

“Do you seek forgetfulness of old joys?” he asked. “This is my own case
and Pyne’s. Or do you, as Mollie does, seek new joys—youth’s eternal
quest?”

Rita laughed with a careless abandon which belonged to that part of her
character veiled from the outer world.

“I think I agree with Miss Gretna,” she said lightly. “There is not so
much happiness in life that I want to forget the little I have had.”

“Happiness,” murmured Kilfane. “There is no real happiness. Happiness
is smoke. Let us smoke.”

“I am curious, but half afraid,” declared Rita. “I have heard that
opium sometimes has no other effect than to make one frightfully ill.”

“Oh, my dear!” cried Miss Gretna, with a foolish giggling laugh, “you
will love it! Such fascinating dreams! Such delightful adventures!”

“Other drugs,” drawled Sir Lucien, “merely stimulate one’s normal
mental activities. _Chandu_ is a key to another life. Cocaine, for
instance enhances our capacity for work. It is only a heretic like De
Quincey who prostitutes the magic gum to such base purposes. _Chandu_
is misunderstood in Europe; in Asia it is the companion of the
aesthete’s leisure.”

“But surely,” said Rita, “one pipe of opium will not produce all these
wonders.”

“Some people never experience them at all,” interrupted Miss Gretna.
“The great idea is to get into a comfortable position, and just resign
yourself—let yourself go. Oh, it’s heavenly!”

Cyrus Kilfane turned his dull eyes in Rita’s direction.

“A question of temperament and adaptability,” he murmured. “De Quincey,
Pyne”—slowly turning towards the baronet—“is didactic, of course; but
his _Confessions_ may be true, nevertheless. He forgets, you see, that
he possessed an unusual constitution, and the temperament of a
Norwegian herring. He forgets, too, that he was a laudanum drinker, not
an opium smoker. Now you, my daughter”—the lustreless eyes again sought
Rita’s flushed face—“are vivid—intensely vital. If you can succeed in
resigning yourself to the hypnosis induced your experiences will be
delightful. Trust your Uncle Cy.”

Leaving Rita chatting with Miss Gretna, Kilfane took Pyne aside,
offering him a cigarette from an ornate, jewelled case.

“Hello,” said the baronet, “can you still get these?”

“With the utmost difficulty,” murmured Kilfane, returning the case to
his pocket. “Lola charges me five guineas a hundred for them, and only
supplies them as a favor. I shall be glad to get back home, Pyne. The
right stuff is the wrong price in London.”

Sir Lucien laughed sardonically, lighting Kilfane’s cigarette and then
his own.

“I find it so myself,” he said. “Everything except opium is to be had
at Kazmah’s, and nothing except opium interests me.”

“He supplies me with cocaine,” murmured the comedian. “His figure works
out, as nearly as I can estimate it, at 10s 7½d. a grain. I saw him
about it yesterday afternoon, pointing out to the brown guy that as the
wholesale price is roughly 2¼d., I regarded his margin of profit as
somewhat broad.”

“Indeed!”

“The first time I had ever seen him, Pyne. I brought an introduction
from Dr. Silver, of New York, and Kazmah supplied me without
question—at a price.”

“You always saw Rashîd?”

“Yes. If there were other visitors I waited. But yesterday I made a
personal appointment with Kazmah. He pretended to think I had come to
have a dream interpreted. He is clever, Pyne. He never moved a muscle
throughout the interview. But finally he assured me that all the
receivers in England had amalgamated, and that the price he charged
represented a very narrow margin of profit. Of course he is a liar. He
is making a fortune. Do you know him personally?”

“No,” replied Sir Lucien, “outside his Bond Street home of mystery he
is unknown. A clever man, as you say. You obtain your opium from Lola?”

“Yes. Kazmah sent her to me. She keeps me on ridiculously low rations,
and if I had not brought my own outfit I don’t think she would have
sold me one. Of course, her game is beating up clients for the
Limehouse dive.”

“You have visited ‘The House of a Hundred Raptures’?”

“Many times, at week-ends. Opium, like wine, is better enjoyed in
company.”

“Does she post you the opium?”

“Oh, no; my man goes to Limehouse for it. Ah! here she is.”

A woman came in, carrying a brown leather attaché case. She had left
her hat and coat in the hall, and wore a smart blue serge skirt and a
white blouse. She was not tall, but she possessed a remarkably
beautiful figure which the cut of her garments was not intended to
disguise, and her height was appreciably increased by a pair of suéde
shoes having the most wonderful heels which Rita ever remembered to
have seen worn on or off the stage. They seemed to make her small feet
appear smaller, and lent to her slender ankles an exaggerated frontal
curve.

Her hair was of that true, glossy black which suggests the blue sheen
of raven’s plumage, and her thickly fringed eyes were dark and southern
as her hair. She had full, voluptuous lips, and a bold self-assurance.
In the swift, calculating glance which she cast about the room there
was something greedy and evil; and when it rested upon Rita Dresden’s
dainty beauty to the evil greed was added cruelty.

“Another little sister, dear Lola,” murmured Kilfane. “Of course, you
know who it is? This, my daughter,” turning the sleepy glance towards
Rita, “is our officiating priestess, Mrs. Sin.”

The woman so strangely named revealed her gleaming teeth in a swift,
unpleasant smile, then her nostrils dilated and she glanced about her
suspiciously.

“Someone smokes the _chandu_ cigarettes,” she said, speaking in a low
tone which, nevertheless, failed to disguise her harsh voice, and with
a very marked accent.

“I am the offender, dear Lola,” said Kilfane, dreamily waving his
cigarette towards her. “I have managed to make the last hundred spin
out. You have brought me a new supply?”

“Oh no, indeed,” replied Mrs. Sin, tossing her head in a manner oddly
reminiscent of a once famous Spanish dancer. “Next Tuesday you get some
more. Ah! it is no good! You talk and talk and it cannot alter
anything. Until they come I cannot give them to you.”

“But it appears to me,” murmured Kilfane, “that the supply is always
growing less.”

“Of course. The best goes all to Edinburgh now. I have only three
sticks of Yezd left of all my stock.”

“But the cigarettes.”

“Are from Buenos Ayres? Yes. But Buenos Ayres must get the opium before
we get the cigarettes, eh? Five cases come to London on Tuesday, Cy. Be
of good courage, my dear.”

She patted the sallow cheek of the American with her jewelled fingers,
and turned aside, glancing about her.

“Yes,” murmured Kilfane. “We are all present, Lola. I have had the room
prepared. Come, my children, let us enter the poppy portico.”

He opened a door and stood aside, waving one thin yellow hand between
the first two fingers of which smouldered the drugged cigarette. Led by
Mrs. Sin the company filed into an apartment evidently intended for a
drawing-room, but which had been hastily transformed into an opium
divan.

Tables, chairs, and other items of furniture had been stacked against
one of the walls and the floor spread with rugs, skins, and numerous
silk cushions. A gas fire was alight, but before it had been placed an
ornate Japanese screen whereon birds of dazzling plumage hovered amid
the leaves of gilded palm trees. In the centre of the room stood a
small card-table, and upon it were a large brass tray and an ivory
pedestal exquisitely carved in the form of a nude figure having one arm
upraised. The figure supported a lamp, the light of which was subdued
by a barrel-shaped shade of Chinese workmanship.

Mollie Gretna giggled hysterically.

“Make yourself comfortable, dear,” she cried to Rita, dropping down
upon a heap of cushions stacked in a recess beside the fireplace. “I am
going to take off my shoes. The last time, Cyrus, when I woke up my
feet were quite numb.”

“You should come down to my place,” said Mrs. Sin, setting the leather
case on the little card-table beside the lamp. “You have there your own
little room and silken sheets to lie in, and it is quiet—so quiet.”

“Oh!” cried Mollie Gretna, “I _must_ come! But I daren’t go alone. Will
you come with me, dear?” turning to Rita.

“I don’t know,” was the reply. “I may not like opium.”

“But if you do—and I know you will?”

“Why,” said Rita, glancing rapidly at Pyne, “I suppose it would be a
novel experience.”

“Let me arrange it for you,” came the harsh voice of Mrs. Sin. “Lucy
will drive you both down—won’t you, my dear?” The shadowed eyes glanced
aside at Sir Lucien Pyne.

“Certainly,” he replied. “I am always at the ladies’ service.”

Rita Dresden settled herself luxuriously into a nest of silk and fur in
another corner of the room, regarding the baronet coquettishly through
her half-lowered lashes.

“I won’t go unless it is my party, Lucy,” she said. “You must let me
pay.”

“A detail,” murmured Pyne, crossing and standing beside her.

Interest now became centred upon the preparations being made by Mrs.
Sin. From the attaché case she took out a lacquered box, silken-lined
like a jewel-casket. It contained four singular-looking pipes, the
parts of which she began to fit together. The first and largest of
these had a thick bamboo stem, an amber mouthpiece, and a tiny,
disproportionate bowl of brass. The second was much smaller and was of
some dark, highly-polished wood, mounted with silver conceived in an
ornate Chinese design representing a long-tailed lizard. The mouthpiece
was of jade. The third and fourth pipes were yet smaller, a perfectly
matched pair in figured ivory of exquisite workmanship, delicately
gold-mounted.

“These for the ladies,” said Mrs. Sin, holding up the pair.
“You”—glancing at Kilfane—“have got your own pipe, I know.”

She laid them upon the tray, and now took out of the case a little
copper lamp, a smaller lacquered box and a silver spatula, her jewelled
fingers handling the queer implements with a familiarity bred of habit.

“What a strange woman!” whispered Rita to Pyne. “Is she an oriental?”

“Cuban-Jewess,” he replied in a low voice.

Mrs. Sin carefully lighted the lamp, which burned with a short, bluish
flame, and, opening the lacquered box, she dipped the spatula into the
thick gummy substance which it contained and twisted the little
instrument round and round between her fingers, presently withdrawing
it with a globule of _chandu_, about the size of a bean, adhering to
the end. She glanced aside at Kilfane.

“Chinese way, eh?” she said.

She began to twirl the prepared opium above the flame of the lamp. From
it a slight, sickly smelling vapor arose. No one spoke, but all watched
her closely; and Rita was conscious of a growing, pleasurable
excitement. When by evaporation the _chandu_ had become reduced to the
size of a small pea, and a vague spirituous blue flame began to dance
round the end of the spatula, Mrs. Sin pressed it adroitly into the
tiny bowl of one of the ivory pipes, having first held the bowl
inverted for a moment over the lamp. She turned to Rita.

“The guest of the evening,” she said. “Do not be afraid. Inhale—oh, so
gentle—and blow the smoke from the nostrils. You know how to smoke?”

“The same as a cigarette?” asked Rita excitedly, as Mrs. Sin bent over
her.

“The same, but very, very gentle.”

Rita took the pipe and raised the mouthpiece to the lips.




CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE SHADE OF THE LONELY PALM


Persian opium of good quality contains from ten to fifteen percent
morphine, and _chandu_ made from opium of Yezd would contain perhaps
twenty-five per cent of this potent drug; but because in the act of
smoking distillation occurs, nothing like this quantity of morphine
reaches the smoker. To the distilling process, also, may be due the
different symptoms resulting from smoking _chandu_ and injecting
morphia—or drinking tincture of opium, as De Quincey did.

Rita found the flavor of the preparation to be not entirely unpleasant.
Having overcome an initial aversion, caused by its marked medicinal
tang, she grew reconciled to it and finished her first smoke without
experiencing any other effect than a sensation of placid contentment.
Deftly, Mrs. Sin renewed the pipe. Silence had fallen upon the party.

The second “pill” was no more than half consumed when a growing feeling
of nausea seized upon the novice, becoming so marked that she dropped
the ivory pipe weakly and uttered a faint moan.

Instantly, silently, Mrs. Sin was beside her.

“Lean forward—so,” she whispered, softly, as if fearful of intruding
her voice upon these sacred rites. “In a moment you will be better.
Then, if you feel faint, lie back. It is the sleep. Do not fight
against it.”

The influence of the stronger will prevailed. Self-control and judgment
are qualities among the first to succumb to opium. Rita ceased to think
longingly of the clean, fresh air, of escape from these sickly fumes
which seemed now to fill the room with a moving vacuum. She bent
forward, her chin resting upon her breast, and gradually the deathly
sickness passed. Mentally, she underwent a change, too. From an active
state of resistance the ego traversed a descending curve ending in
absolute passivity. The floor had seemingly begun to revolve and was
moving insidiously, so that the pattern of the carpet formed a series
of concentric rings. She found this imaginary phenomenon to be soothing
rather than otherwise, and resigned herself almost eagerly to the
delusion.

Mrs. Sin allowed her to fall back upon the cushions—so gently and so
slowly that the operation appeared to occupy several minutes and to
resemble that of sinking into innumerable layers of swansdown. The
sinuous figure bending over her grew taller with the passage of each
minute, until the dark eyes of Mrs. Sin were looking down at Rita from
a dizzy elevation. As often occurs in the case of a neurotic subject,
delusion as to time and space had followed the depression of the
sensory cells.

But surely, she mused, this could not be Mrs. Sin who towered so
loftily above her. Of course, how absurd to imagine that a woman could
remain motionless for so many hours. And Rita thought, now, that she
had been lying for several hours beneath the shadow of that tall,
graceful, and protective shape.

Why—it was a slender palm-tree, which stretched its fanlike foliage
over her! Far, far above her head the long, dusty green fronds
projected from the mast-like trunk. The sun, a ball of fiery brass,
burned directly in the zenith, so that the shadow of the foliage lay
like a carpet about her feet. That which she had mistaken for the
ever-receding eyes of Mrs. Sin, wondering with a delightful vagueness
why they seemed constantly to change color, proved to be a pair of
brilliantly plumaged parrakeets perched upon a lofty branch of the
palm.

This was an equatorial noon, and even if she had not found herself to
be under the influence of a delicious abstraction Rita would not have
moved; for, excepting the friendly palm, not another vestige of
vegetation was visible right away to the horizon; nothing but an ocean
of sand whereon no living thing moved. She and the parrakeets were
alone in the heart of the Great Sahara.

But stay! Many, many miles away, a speck on the dusty carpet of the
desert, something moved! Hours must elapse before that tiny figure,
provided it were approaching, could reach the solitary palm.
Delightedly, Rita contemplated the infinity of time. Even if the figure
moved ever so slowly, she should be waiting there beneath the palm to
witness its arrival. Already, she had been there for a period which she
was far too indolent to strive to compute—a week, perhaps. She turned
her attention to the parrakeets. One of them was moving, and she noted
with delight that it had perceived her far below and was endeavoring to
draw the attention of its less observant companion to her presence. For
many hours she lay watching it and wondering why, since the one bird
was so singularly intelligent, its companion was equally dull. When she
lowered her eyes and looked out again across the sands, the figure had
approached so close as to be recognizable.

It was that of Mrs. Sin. Rita appreciated the fitness of her presence,
and experienced no surprise, only a mild curiosity. This curiosity was
not concerned with Mrs. Sin herself, but with the nature of the burden
which she bore upon her head.

She was dressed in a manner which Rita dreamily thought would have been
inadequate in England, or even in Cuba, but which was appropriate in
the Great Sahara. How exquisitely she carried herself, mused the
dreamer; no doubt this fine carriage was due in part to her wearing
golden shoes with heels like stilts, and in part to her having been
trained to bear heavy burdens upon her head. Rita remembered that Sir
Lucien had once described to her the elegant deportment of the Arab
women, ascribing it to their custom of carrying water-jars in that way.

The appearance of the speck on the horizon had marked the height of her
trance. Her recognition of Mrs. Sin had signalized the decline of the
_chandu_ influence. Now, the intrusion of a definite, uncontorted
memory was evidence of returning cerebral activity.

Rita had no recollection of the sunset; indeed, she had failed to
perceive any change in the form and position of the shadow cast by the
foliage. It had spread, an ebony patch, equally about the bole of the
tree, so that the sun must have been immediately overhead. But, of
course, she had lain watching the parrakeets for several hours, and now
night had fallen. The desert mounds were touched with silver, the sky
was a nest of diamonds, and the moon cast a shadow of the palm like a
bar of ebony right across the prospect to the rim of the sky dome.

Mrs. Sin stood before her, one half of her lithe body concealed by this
strange black shadow and the other half gleaming in the moonlight so
that she resembled a beautiful ivory statue which some iconoclast had
cut in two.

Placing her burden upon the ground, Mrs. Sin knelt down before Rita and
reverently kissed her hand, whispering: “I am your slave, my poppy
queen.”

She spoke in a strange language, no doubt some African tongue, but one
which Rita understood perfectly. Then she laid one hand upon the object
which she had carried on her head, and which now proved to be a large
lacquered casket covered with Chinese figures and bound by three hoops
of gold. It had a very curious shape.

“Do you command that the chest be opened?” she asked.

“Yes,” answered Rita languidly.

Mrs. Sin threw up the lid, and from the interior of the casket which,
because of the glare of the moon light, seemed every moment to assume a
new form, drew out a bronze lamp.

“The sacred lamp,” she whispered, and placed it on the sand. “Do you
command that it be lighted?”

Rita inclined her head.

The lamp became lighted; in what manner she did not observe, nor was
she curious to learn. Next from the large casket Mrs. Sin took another
smaller casket and a very long, tapering silver bodkin. The first
casket had perceptibly increased in size. It was certainly much larger
than Rita had supposed; for now out from its shadowy interior Mrs. Sin
began to take pipes—long pipes and short pipes, pipes of gold and pipes
of silver, pipes of ivory and pipes of jade. Some were carved to
represent the heads of demons, some had the bodies of serpents wreathed
about them; others were encrusted with precious gems, and filled the
night with the venomous sheen of emeralds, the blood-rays of rubies and
golden glow of topaz, while the spear-points of diamonds flashed a
challenge to the stars.

“Do you command that the pipes be lighted?” asked the harsh voice.

Rita desired to answer, “No,” but heard herself saying, “Yes.”

Thereupon, from a thousand bowls, linking that lonely palm to the
remote horizon, a thousand elfin fires arose—blue-tongued and
spirituous. Grey pencilings of smoke stole straightly upward to the
sky, so that look where she would Rita could discern nothing but these
countless thin, faintly wavering, vertical lines of vapor.

The dimensions of the lacquered casket had increased so vastly as to
conceal the kneeling figure of Mrs. Sin, and staring at it wonderingly,
Rita suddenly perceived that it was not an ordinary casket. She knew at
last why its shape had struck her as being unusual.

It was a Chinese coffin.

The smell of the burning opium was stifling her. Those remorseless
threads of smoke were closing in, twining themselves about her throat.
It was becoming cold, too, and the moonlight was growing dim. The
position of the moon had changed, of course, as the night had stolen on
towards morning, and now it hung dimly before her. The smoke obscured
it.

But was this smoke obscuring the moon? Rita moved her hands for the
first time since she had found herself under the palm tree, weakly
fending off those vaporous tentacles which were seeking to entwine
themselves about her throat. Of course, it was not smoke obscuring the
moon, she decided; it was a lamp, upheld by an ivory figure—a lamp with
a Chinese shade.

A subdued roaring sound became audible; and this was occasioned by the
gas fire, burning behind the Japanese screen on which gaily plumaged
birds sported in the branches of golden palms. Rita raised her hands to
her eyes. Mist obscured her sight. Swiftly, now, reality was asserting
itself and banishing the phantasmagoria conjured up by _chandu_.

In her dim, cushioned corner Mollie Gretna lay back against the wall,
her face pale and her weak mouth foolishly agape. Cyrus Kilfane was
indistinguishable from the pile of rugs amid which he sprawled by the
table, and of Sir Lucien Pyne nothing was to be seen but the
outstretched legs and feet which projected grotesquely from a recess.
Seated, oriental fashion, upon an improvised divan near the grand piano
and propped up by a number of garish cushions, Rita beheld Mrs. Sin.
The long bamboo pipe had fallen from her listless fingers. Her face
wore an expression of mystic rapture like that characterizing the
features of some Chinese Buddhas.

Fear, unaccountable but uncontrollable, suddenly seized upon Rita. She
felt weak and dizzy, but she struggled partly upright.

“Lucy!” she whispered.

Her voice was not under control, and once more she strove to call to
Pyne.

“Lucy!” came the hoarse whisper again.

The fire continued its muted roaring, but no other sound answered to
the appeal. A horror of the companionship in which she found herself
thereupon took possession of the girl. She must escape from these
sleepers, whose spirits had been expelled by the potent necromancer,
opium, from these empty tenements whose occupants had fled. The idea of
the cool night air in the open streets was delicious.

She staggered to her feet, swaying drunkenly, but determined to reach
the door. She shuddered, because of a feeling of internal chill which
assailed her, but step by step crept across the room, opened the door,
and tottered out into the hallway. There was no sound in the flat.
Presumably Kilfane’s man had retired, or perhaps he, too, was a
devotee.

Rita’s fur coat hung upon the rack, and although her fingers appeared
to have lost all their strength and her arm to have become weak as that
of an infant, she succeeded in detaching the coat from the hook. Not
pausing to put it on, she opened the door and stumbled out on to the
darkened landing. Whereas her first impulse had been to awaken someone,
preferably Sir Lucien, now her sole desire was to escape undetected.

She began to feel less dizzy, and having paused for a moment on the
landing, she succeeded in getting her coat on. Then she closed the door
as quietly as possible, and clutching the handrail began to grope her
way downstairs. There was only one flight, she remembered, and a short
passage leading to the street door. She reached the passage without
mishap, and saw a faint light ahead.

The fastenings gave her some trouble, but finally her efforts were
successful, and she found herself standing in deserted Duke Street.
There was no moon, but the sky was cloudless. She had no idea of the
time, but because of the stillness of the surrounding streets she knew
that it must be very late. She set out for her flat, walking slowly and
wondering what explanation she should offer if a constable observed
her.

Oxford Street showed deserted as far as the eye could reach, and her
light footsteps seemed to awaken a hundred echoes. Having proceeded for
some distance without meeting anyone, she observed—and experienced a
childish alarm—the head-lights of an approaching car. Instantly the
idea of hiding presented itself to her, but so rapidly did the big
automobile speed along the empty thoroughfare that Rita was just
passing a street lamp as the car raced by, and she must therefore have
been clearly visible to the occupants.

Never for a moment glancing aside, Rita pressed on as quickly as she
could. Then her vague alarm became actual terror. She heard the brakes
being applied to the car, and heard the gritty sound of the tires upon
the roadway as the vehicle’s headlong progress was suddenly checked.
She had been seen—perhaps recognized, and whoever was in the car
proposed to return to speak to her.

If her strength had allowed she would have run, but now it threatened
to desert her altogether and she tottered weakly. A pattering of
footsteps came from behind. Someone was running back to overtake her.
Recognizing escape to be impossible, Rita turned just as the runner
came up with her.

“Rita!” he cried, rather breathlessly. “Miss Dresden!”

She stood very still, looking at the speaker.

It was Monte Irvin.




CHAPTER XV.
METAMORPHOSIS


As Irvin seized her hands and looked at her eagerly, half-fearfully,
Rita achieved sufficient composure to speak.

“Oh, Mr. Irvin,” she said, and found that her voice was not entirely
normal, “what must you think—”

He continued to hold her hands, and:

“I think you are very indiscreet to be out alone at three o’clock in
the morning,” he answered gently. “I was recalled to London by urgent
business, and returned by road—fortunately, since I have met you.”

“How can I explain—”

“I don’t ask you to explain—Miss Dresden. I have no right and no desire
to ask. But I wish I had the right to advise you.”

“How good you are,” she began, “and I—”

Her voice failed her completely, and her sensitive lips began to
tremble. Monte Irvin drew her arm under his own and led her back to
meet the car, which the chauffeur had turned and which was now
approaching.

“I will drive you home,” he said, “and if I may call in the morning. I
should like to do so.”

Rita nodded. She could not trust herself to speak again. And having
placed her in the car, Monte Irvin sat beside her, reclaiming her hand
and grasping it reassuringly and sympathetically throughout the short
drive. They parted at her door.

“Good night,” said Irvin, speaking very deliberately because of an
almost uncontrollable desire which possessed him to take Rita in his
arms, to hold her fast, to protect her from her own pathetic self and
from those influences, dimly perceived about her, but which intuitively
he knew to be evil.

“If I call at eleven will that be too early?”

“No,” she whispered. “Please come early. There is a matinee tomorrow.”

“You mean today,” he corrected. “Poor little girl, how tired you will
be. Good night.”

“Good night,” she said, almost inaudibly.

She entered, and, having closed the door, stood leaning against it for
several minutes. Bleakness and nausea threatened to overcome her anew,
and she felt that if she essayed another step she must collapse upon
the floor. Her maid was in bed, and had not been awakened by Rita’s
entrance. After a time she managed to grope her way to her bedroom,
where, turning up the light, she sank down helplessly upon the bed.

Her mental state was peculiar, and her thoughts revolved about the
journey from Oxford Street homeward. A thousand times she mentally
repeated the journey, speaking the same words over and over again, and
hearing Monte Irvin’s replies.

In those few minutes during which they had been together her sentiments
in regard to him had undergone a change. She had always respected
Irvin, but this respect had been curiously compounded of the personal
and the mercenary; his well-ordered establishment at Prince’s Gate had
loomed behind the figure of the man forming a pleasing background to
the portrait. Without being showy he was a splendid “match” for any
woman. His wife would have access to good society, and would enjoy
every luxury that wealth could procure. This was the picture lovingly
painted and constantly retouched by Rita’s mother.

Now it had vanished. The background was gone, and only the man
remained; the strong, reserved man whose deep voice had spoken so
gently, whose devotion was so true and unselfish that he only sought to
shield and protect her from follies the nature of which he did not even
seek to learn. She was stripped of her vanity, and felt loathsome and
unworthy of such a love.

“Oh,” she moaned, rocking to and fro. “I hate myself—I hate myself!”

Now that the victory so long desired seemed at last about to be won,
she hesitated to grasp the prize. One solacing reflection she had. She
would put the errors of the past behind her. Many times of late she had
found herself longing to be done with the feverish life of the stage.
Envied by those who had been her companions in the old chorus days, and
any one of whom would have counted ambition crowned could she have
played _The Maid of the Masque_, Rita thought otherwise. The ducal
mansions and rose-bowered Riviera hotels through which she moved
nightly had no charm for her; she sighed for reality, and had wearied
long ago of the canvas palaces and the artificial Southern moonlight.
In fact, stage life had never truly appealed to her—save as a means to
an end.

Again and yet again her weary brain reviewed the episodes of the night
since she had left Cyrus Kilfane’s flat, so that nearly an hour had
elapsed before she felt capable of the operation of undressing.
Finally, however, she undressed, shuddering although the room was
warmed by an electric radiator. The weakness and sickness had left her,
but she was quite wide awake, although her brain demanded rest from
that incessant review of the events of the evening.

She put on a warm wrap and seated herself at the dressing-table,
studying her face critically. She saw that she was somewhat pale and
that she had an indefinable air of dishevelment. Also she detected
shadows beneath her eyes, the pupils of which were curiously
contracted. Automatically, as a result of habit, she unlocked her
jewel-case and took out a tiny phial containing minute cachets. She
shook several out on to the palm of her hand, and then paused, staring
at her reflection in the mirror.

For fully half a minute she hesitated, then:

“I shall never close my eyes all night if I don’t!” she whispered, as
if in reply to a spoken protest, “and I should be a wreck in the
morning.”

Thus, in the very apogee of her resolve to reform, did she drive one
more rivet into the manacles which held her captive to Kazmah and
Company.

Upon a little spirit-stove stood a covered vessel containing milk,
which was placed there nightly by Rita’s maid. She lighted the burner
and warmed the milk. Then, swallowing three of the cachets from the
phial, she drank the milk. Each cachet contained three decigrams of
malourea, the insidious drug notorious under its trade name of Veronal.

She slept deeply, and was not awakened until ten o’clock. Her breakfast
consisted of a cup of strong coffee; but when Monte Irvin arrived at
eleven Rita exhibited no sign of nerve exhaustion. She looked bright
and charming, and Irvin’s heart leapt hotly in his breast at sight of
her.

Following some desultory and unnatural conversation:

“May I speak quite frankly to you?” he said, drawing his chair nearer
to the settee upon which Rita was seated.

She glanced at him swiftly. “Of course,” she replied. “Is it—about my
late hours?”

He shook his head, smiling rather sadly.

“That is only one phase of your rather feverish life, little girl,” he
said. “I don’t mean that I want to lecture you or reproach you. I only
want to ask you if you are satisfied?”

“Satisfied?” echoed Rita, twirling a tassel that hung from a cushion
beside her.

“Yes. You have achieved success in your profession.” He strove in vain
to banish bitterness from his voice. “You are a ‘star,’ and your
photograph is to be seen frequently in the smartest illustrated papers.
You are clever and beautiful and have hosts of admirers. But—are you
satisfied?”

She stared absently at the silk tassel, twirling it about her white
fingers more and more rapidly. Then:

“No,” she answered softly.

Monte Irvin hesitated for a moment ere bending forward and grasping her
hands.

“I am glad you are not satisfied,” he whispered. “I always knew you had
a soul for something higher—better.”

She avoided his ardent gaze, but he moved to the settee beside her and
looked into the bewitching face.

“Would it be a great sacrifice to give it all up?” he whispered in a
yet lower tone.

Rita shook her head, persistently staring at the tassel.

“For me?”

She gave him a swift, half-frightened glance, pressing her hands
against his breast and leaning, back.

“Oh, you don’t know me—you don’t know me!” she said, the good that was
in her touched to life by the man’s sincerity. “I—don’t deserve it.”

“Rita!” he murmured. “I won’t hear you say that!”

“You know nothing about my friends—about my life—”

“I know that I want you for my wife, so that I can protect you from
those ‘friends.’” He took her in his arms, and she surrendered her lips
to him.

“My sweet little girl,” he whispered. “I cannot believe it—yet.”

But the die was cast, and when Rita went to the theatre to dress for
the afternoon performance she was pledged to sever her connection with
the stage on the termination of her contract. She had luncheon with
Monte Irvin, and had listened almost dazedly to his plans for the
future. His wealth was even greater than her mother had estimated it to
be, and Rita’s most cherished dreams were dwarfed by the prospects
which Monte Irvin opened up before her. It almost seemed as though he
knew and shared her dearest ambitions. She was to winter beneath real
Southern palms and to possess a cruising yacht, not one of boards and
canvas like that which figured in _The Maid of the Masque_.

Real Southern palms, she mused guiltily, not those conjured up by
opium. That he was solicitous for her health the nature of his schemes
revealed. They were to visit Switzerland, and proceed thence to a villa
which he owned in Italy. Christmas they would spend in Cairo, explore
the Nile to Assouan in a private _dahabîyeh_, and return home via the
Riviera in time to greet the English spring. Rita’s delicate, swiftly
changing color, her almost ethereal figure, her intense nervous energy
he ascribed to a delicate constitution.

She wondered if she would ever dare to tell him the truth; if she ought
to tell him.

Pyne came to her dressing-room just before the performance began. He
had telephoned at an early hour in the morning, and had learned from
her maid that Rita had come home safely and was asleep. Rita had
expected him; but the influence of Monte Irvin, from whom she had
parted at the stage-door, had prevailed until she actually heard Sir
Lucien’s voice in the corridor. She had resolutely refrained from
looking at the little jewelled casket, engraved “From Lucy to Rita,”
which lay in her make-up box upon the table. But the imminence of an
ordeal which she dreaded intensely weakened her resolution. She swiftly
dipped a little nail-file into the white powder which the box
contained, and when Pyne came in she turned to him composedly.

“I am so sorry if I gave you a scare last night, Lucy,” she said. “But
I woke up feeling sick, and I had to go out into the fresh air.”

“I was certainly alarmed,” drawled Pyne, whose swarthy face looked more
than usually worn in the hard light created by the competition between
the dressing-room lamps and the grey wintry daylight which crept
through the windows. “Do you feel quite fit again?”

“Quite, thanks.” Rita glanced at a ring which she had not possessed
three hours before. “Oh, Lucy—I don’t know how to tell you—”

She turned in her chair, looking up wistfully at Pyne, who was standing
behind her. His jaw hardened, and his glance sought the white hand upon
which the costly gems glittered. He coughed nervously.

“Perhaps”—his drawling manner of speech temporarily deserted him; he
spoke jerkily—“perhaps—I can guess.”

She watched him in a pathetic way, and there was a threat of tears in
her beautiful eyes; for whatever his earlier intentions may have been,
Sir Lucien had proved a staunch friend and, according to his own
peculiar code, an honorable lover.

“Is it—Irvin?” he asked jerkily.

Rita nodded, and a tear glistened upon her darkened lashes.

Sir Lucien cleared his throat again, then coolly extended his hand,
once more master of his emotions.

“Congratulations, Rita,” he said. “The better man wins. I hope you will
be very happy.”

He turned and walked quietly out of the dressing-room.




CHAPTER XVI.
LIMEHOUSE


It was on the following Tuesday evening that Mrs. Sin came to the
theatre, accompanied by Mollie Gretna. Rita instructed that she should
be shown up to the dressing-room. The personality of this singular
woman interested her keenly. Mrs. Sin was well known in certain
Bohemian quarters, but was always spoken of as one speaks of a pet
vice. Not to know Mrs. Sin was to be outside the magic circle which
embraced the exclusively smart people who practiced the latest
absurdities.

The so-called artistic temperament is compounded of great strength and
great weakness; its virtues are whiter than those of ordinary people
and its vices blacker. For such a personality Mrs. Sin embodied the
idea of secret pleasure. Her bold good looks repelled Rita, but the
knowledge in her dark eyes was alluring.

“I arrange for you for Saturday night,” she said. “Cy Kilfane is coming
with Mollie, and you bring—”

“Oh,” replied Rita hesitatingly, “I am sorry you have gone to so much
trouble.”

“No trouble, my dear,” Mrs. Sin assured her. “Just a little matter of
business, and you can pay the bill when it suits you.”

“I am frightfully excited!” cried Mollie Gretna. “It is so nice of you
to have asked me to join your party. Of course Cy goes practically
every week, but I have always wanted another girl to go with. Oh, I
shall be in a perfectly delicious panic when I find myself all among
funny Chinamen and things! I think there is something so magnificently
wicked-looking about a pigtail—and the very name of Limehouse thrills
me to the soul!”

That fixity of purpose which had enabled Rita to avoid the cunning
snares set for her feet and to snatch triumph from the very cauldron of
shame without burning her fingers availed her not at all in dealing
with Mrs. Sin. The image of Monte receded before this appeal to the
secret pleasure-loving woman, of insatiable curiosity, primitive and
unmoral, who dwells, according to a modern cynic philosopher, within
every daughter of Eve touched by the fire of genius.

She accepted the arrangement for Saturday, and before her visitors had
left the dressing-room her mind was busy with plausible deceits to
cover the sojourn in Chinatown. Something of Mollie Gretna’s foolish
enthusiasm had communicated itself to Rita.

Later in the evening Sir Lucien called, and on hearing of the scheme
grew silent. Rita glancing at his reflection in the mirror, detected a
black and angry look upon his face. She turned to him.

“Why, Lucy,” she said, “don’t you want me to go?”

He smiled in his sardonic fashion.

“Your wishes are mine, Rita,” he replied.

She was watching him closely.

“But you don’t seem keen,” she persisted. “Are you angry with me?”

“Angry?”

“We are still friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course. Do you doubt my friendship?”

Rita’s maid came in to assist her in changing for the third act, and
Pyne went out of the room. But, in spite of his assurances, Rita could
not forget that fierce, almost savage expression which had appeared
upon his face when she had told him of Mrs. Sin’s visit.

Later she taxed him on the point, but he suffered her inquiry with
imperturbable sangfroid, and she found herself no wiser respecting the
cause of his annoyance. Painful twinges of conscience came during the
ensuing days, when she found herself in her fiancé’s company, but she
never once seriously contemplated dropping the acquaintance of Mrs.
Sin.

She thought, vaguely, as she had many times thought before, of cutting
adrift from the entire clique, but there was no return of that sincere
emotional desire to reform which she had experienced on the day that
Monte Irvin had taken her hand, in blind trust, and had asked her to be
his wife. Had she analyzed, or been capable of analyzing, her
intentions with regard to the future, she would have learned that daily
they inclined more and more towards compromise. The drug habit was
sapping will and weakening morale, insidiously, imperceptibly. She was
caught in a current of that “sacred river” seen in an opium-trance by
Coleridge, and which ran—

“Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.”


Pyne’s big car was at the stage-door on the fateful Saturday night, for
Rita had brought her dressing-case to the theatre, and having called
for Kilfane and Mollie Gretna they were to proceed direct to Limehouse.

Rita, as she entered the car, noticed that Juan Mareno, Sir Lucien’s
man, and not the chauffeur with whom she was acquainted, sat at the
wheel. As they drove off:

“Why is Mareno driving tonight, Lucy?” she asked.

Sir Lucien glanced aside at her.

“He is in my confidence,” he replied. “Fraser is not.”

“Oh, I see. You don’t want Fraser to know about the Limehouse journey?”

“Naturally I don’t. He would talk to all the men at the garage, and
from South Audley Street the tit-bit of scandal would percolate through
every stratum of society.”

Rita was silent for a few moments, then:

“Were you thinking about Monte?” she asked diffidently.

Pyne laughed.

“He would scarcely approve, would he?”

“No,” replied Rita. “Was that why you were angry when I told you I was
going?”

“This ‘anger,’ to which you constantly revert, had no existence outside
your own imagination, Rita. But” he hesitated—“you will have to
consider your position, dear, now that you are the future Mrs. Monte.”
Rita felt her cheeks flush, and she did not reply immediately.

“I don’t understand you, Lucy,” she declared at last. “How odd you
are.”

“Am I? Well, never mind. We will talk about my eccentricity later. Here
is Cyrus.”

Kilfane was standing in the entrance to the stage door of the theatre
at which he was playing. As the car drew up he lifted two leather grips
on to the step, and Mareno, descending, took charge of them.

“Come along, Mollie,” said Kilfane, looking back.

Miss Gretna, very excited, ran out and got into the car beside Rita.
Pyne lowered two of the collapsible seats for Kilfane and himself, and
the party set out for Limehouse.

“Oh!” cried the fair-haired Mollie, grasping Rita’s hand, “my heart
began palpitating with excitement the moment I woke up this morning!
How calm you are, dear.”

“I am only calm outside,” laughed Rita.

The _joie de vivre_ and apparently unimpaired vitality, of this woman,
for whom (if half that which rumor whispered were true) vice had no
secrets, astonished Rita. Her physical resources were unusual, no
doubt, because the demand made upon them by her mental activities was
slight.

As the car sped along the Strand, where theatre-goers might still be
seen making for tube, omnibus, and tramcar, and entered Fleet Street,
where the car and taxicab traffic was less, a mutual silence fell upon
the party. Two at least of the travellers were watching the lighted
windows of the great newspaper offices with a vague sense of
foreboding, and thinking how, bound upon a secret purpose, they were
passing along the avenue of publicity. It is well that man lacks
prescience. Neither Rita nor Sir Lucien could divine that a day was
shortly to come when the hidden presses which throbbed about them that
night should be busy with the story of the murder of one and
disappearance of the other.

Around St. Paul’s Churchyard whirled the car, its engine running
strongly and almost noiselessly. The great bell of St. Paul’s boomed
out the half-hour.

“Oh!” cried Mollie Gretna, “how that made me jump! What a beautifully
gloomy sound!”

Kilfane murmured some inaudible reply, but neither Pyne nor Rita spoke.

Cornhill and Leadenhall Street, along which presently their route lay,
offered a prospect of lamp-lighted emptiness, but at Aldgate they found
themselves amid East End throngs which afforded a marked contrast to
those crowding theatreland; and from thence through Whitechapel and the
seemingly endless Commercial Road it was a different world into which
they had penetrated.

Rita hitherto had never seen the East End on a Saturday night, and the
spectacle afforded by these busy marts, lighted by naphtha flames, in
whose smoky glare Jews and Jewesses, Poles, Swedes, Easterns, dagoes,
and halfcastes moved feverishly, was a fascinating one. She thought how
utterly alien they were, the men and women of a world unknown to that
society upon whose borders she dwelled; she wondered how they lived,
where they lived, why they lived. The wet pavements were crowded with
nondescript humanity, the night was filled with the unmusical voices of
Hebrew hucksters, and the air laden with the smoky odor of their lamps.
Tramcars and motorbuses were packed unwholesomely with these children
of shadowland drawn together from the seven seas by the magnet of
London.

She glanced at Pyne, but he was seemingly lost in abstraction, and
Kilfane appeared to be asleep. Mollie Gretna was staring eagerly out on
the opposite side of the car at a group of three dago sailors, whom
Mareno had nearly run down, but she turned at that moment and caught
Rita’s glance.

“Don’t you simply love it!” she cried. “Some of those men were really
handsome, dear. If they would only wash I am sure I could adore them!”

“Even such charms as yours can be bought at too high a price,” drawled
Sir Lucien. “They would gladly do murder for you, but never wash.”

Crossing Limehouse Canal, the car swung to the right into West India
Dock Road. The uproar of the commercial thoroughfare was left far
behind. Dark, narrow streets and sinister-looking alleys lay right and
left of them, and into one of the narrowest and least inviting of all
Mareno turned the car.

In the dimly-lighted doorway of a corner house the figure of a Chinaman
showed as a motionless silhouette.

“Oh!” sighed Mollie Gretna rapturously, “a Chinaman! I begin to feel
deliciously sinful!”

The car came to a standstill.

“We get out here and walk,” said Sir Lucien. “It would not be wise to
drive further. Mareno will deliver our baggage by hand presently.”

“But we shall all be murdered,” cried Mollie, “murdered in cold blood!
I am dreadfully frightened!”

“Something of the kind is quite likely,” drawled Sir Lucien, “if you
draw attention to our presence in the neighborhood so deliberately.
Walk ahead, Kilfane, with Mollie. Rita and I will follow at a discreet
distance. Leave the door ajar.”

Temporarily subdued by Pyne’s icy manner, Miss Gretna became silent,
and went on ahead with Cyrus Kilfane, who had preserved an almost
unbroken silence throughout the journey. Rita and Sir Lucien followed
slowly.

“What a creepy neighborhood,” whispered Rita. “Look! Someone is
standing in that doorway over there, watching us.”

“Take no notice,” he replied. “A cat could not pass along this street
unobserved by the Chinese, but they will not interfere with us provided
we do not interfere with them.”

Kilfane had turned to the right into a narrow court, at the entrance to
which stood an iron pillar. As he and his companion passed under the
lamp in a rusty bracket which projected from the wall, they vanished
into a place of shadows. There was a ceaseless chorus of distant
machinery, and above it rose the grinding and rattling solo of a steam
winch. Once a siren hooted apparently quite near them, and looking
upward at a tangled, indeterminable mass which overhung the street at
this point, Rita suddenly recognized it for a ship’s bow-sprit.

“Why,” she said, “we are right on the bank of the river!”

“Not quite,” answered Pyne. “We are skirting a dock basin. We are
nearly at our destination.”

Passing in turn under the lamp, they entered the narrow court, and from
a doorway immediately on the left a faint light shone out upon the wet
pavement. Pyne pushed the door fully open and held it for Rita to
enter. As she did so:

“Hello! hello!” croaked a harsh voice. “Number one p’lice chop, lo! Sin
Sin Wa!”

The uncanny cracked voice proceeded to give an excellent imitation of a
police whistle, and concluded with that of the clicking of castanets.

“Shut the door, Lucy,” came the murmurous tones of Kilfane from the
gloom of the stuffy little room, in the centre of which stood a stove
wherefrom had proceeded the dim light shining out upon the pavement.
“Light up, Sin Sin.”

“Sin Sin Wa! Sin Sin Wa!” shrieked the voice, and again came the
rattling of imaginary castanets. “Smartest leg in Buenos Ayres—Buenos
Ayres—p’lice chop—p’lice chop, lo!”

“Oh,” whispered Mollie Gretna, in the darkness, “I believe I am going
to scream!”

Pyne closed the door, and a dimly discernible figure on the opposite
side of the room stooped and opened a little cupboard in which was a
lighted ship’s lantern. The lantern being lifted out and set upon a
rough table near the stove, it became possible to view the apartment
and its occupants.

It was a small, low-ceiled place, having two doors, one opening upon
the street and the other upon a narrow, uncarpeted passage. The window
was boarded up. The ceiling had once been whitewashed and a few limp,
dark fragments of paper still adhering to the walls proved that some
forgotten decorator had exercised his art upon them in the past. A
piece of well-worn matting lay upon the floor, and there were two
chairs, a table, and a number of empty tea-chests in the room.

Upon one of the tea-chests placed beside the cupboard which had
contained the lantern a Chinaman was seated. His skin was of so light a
yellow color as to approximate to dirty white, and his face was
pock-marked from neck to crown. He wore long, snake-like moustaches,
which hung down below his chin. They grew from the extreme outer edges
of his upper lip, the centre of which, usually the most hirsute, was
hairless as the lip of an infant. He possessed the longest and thickest
pigtail which could possibly grow upon a human scalp, and his left eye
was permanently closed, so that a smile which adorned his extraordinary
countenance seemed to lack the sympathy of his surviving eye, which,
oblique, beady, held no mirth in its glittering depths.

The garments of the one-eyed Chinaman, who sat complacently smiling at
the visitors, consisted of a loose blouse, blue trousers tucked into
grey socks, and a pair of those native, thick-soled slippers which
suggest to a Western critic the acme of discomfort. A raven, black as a
bird of ebony, perched upon the Chinaman’s shoulder, head a-tilt,
surveying the newcomers with a beady, glittering left eye which
strangely resembled the beady, glittering right eye of the Chinaman.
For, singular, uncanny circumstance, this was a one-eyed raven which
sat upon the shoulder of his one-eyed master!

Mollie Gretna uttered a stifled cry. “Oh!” she whispered. “I knew I was
going to scream!”

The eye of Sin Sin Wa turned momentarily in her direction, but
otherwise he did not stir a muscle.

“Are you ready for us, Sin?” asked Sir Lucien.

“All ready. Lola hate gotchee topside loom ready,” replied the Chinaman
in a soft, crooning voice.

“Go ahead, Kilfane,” directed Sir Lucien.

He glanced at Rita, who was standing very near him, surveying the evil
little room and its owner with ill-concealed disgust.

“This is merely the foyer, Rita,” he said, smiling slightly. “The state
apartments are upstairs and in the adjoining house.”

“Oh,” she murmured—and no more.

Kilfane and Mollie Gretna were passing through the inner doorway, and
Mollie turned.

“Isn’t it loathsomely delightful?” she cried.

“Smartest leg in Buenos Ayres!” shrieked the raven. “Sin Sin, Sin Sin!”

Uttering a frightened exclamation, Mollie disappeared along the
passage. Sir Lucien indicated to Rita that she was to follow; and he,
passing through last of the party, closed the door behind him.

Sin Sin Wa never moved, and the raven, settling down upon the
Chinaman’s shoulder, closed his serviceable eye.




CHAPTER XVII.
THE BLACK SMOKE


Up an uncarpeted stair Cyrus Kilfane led the party, and into a kind of
lumber-room lighted by a tin oil lamp and filled to overflowing with
heterogeneous and unsavory rubbish. Here were garments, male and
female, no less than five dilapidated bowler hats, more tea-chests,
broken lamps, tattered fragments of cocoanut-matting, steel bed-laths
and straw mattresses, ruins of chairs—the whole diffusing an
indescribably unpleasant odor.

Opening a cupboard door, Kilfane revealed a number of pendent, ragged
garments, and two more bowler hats. Holding the garments aside, he
banged upon the back of the cupboard—three blows, a pause, and then two
blows.

Following a brief interval, during which even Mollie Gretna was held
silent by the strangeness of the proceedings.

“Who is it?” inquired a muffled voice.

“Cy and the crowd,” answered Kilfane.

Thereupon ensued a grating noise, and hats and garments swung suddenly
backward, revealing a doorway in which Mrs. Sin stood framed. She wore
a Japanese kimona of embroidered green silk and a pair of green and
gold brocaded slippers which possessed higher heels than Rita
remembered to have seen even Mrs. Sin mounted upon before. Her ankles
were bare, and it was impossible to determine in what manner she was
clad beneath the kimona. Undoubtedly she had a certain dark beauty, of
a bold, abandoned type.

“Come right in,” she directed. “Mind your head, Lucy.”

The quartette filed through into a carpeted corridor, and Mrs. Sin
reclosed the false back of the cupboard, which, viewed from the other
side, proved to be a door fitted into a recess in the corridor of the
adjoining house. This recess ceased to exist when a second and heavier
door was closed upon the first.

“You know,” murmured Kilfane, “old Sin Sin has his uses, Lola. Those
doors are perfectly made.”

“Pooh!” scoffed the woman, with a flash of her dark eyes; “he is half a
ship’s carpenter and half an ape!”

She moved along the passage, her arm linked in that of Sir Lucien. The
others followed, and:

“Is she truly _married_ to that dreadful Chinaman?” whispered Mollie
Gretna.

“Yes, I believe so,” murmured Kilfane. “She is known as Mrs. Sin Sin
Wa.”

“Oh!” Mollie’s eyes opened widely. “I almost envy her! I have read that
Chinamen tie their wives to beams in the roof and lash them with
leather thongs until they swoon. I could die for a man who lashed me
with leather thongs. Englishmen are so ridiculously gentle to women.”

Opening a door on the left of the corridor, Mrs. Sin displayed a room
screened off into three sections. One shaded lamp high up near the
ceiling served to light all the cubicles, which were heated by small
charcoal stoves. These cubicles were identical in shape and
appointment, each being draped with quaint Chinese tapestry and
containing rugs, a silken divan, an armchair, and a low, Eastern table.

“Choose for yourself,” said Mrs. Sin, turning to Rita and Mollie
Gretna. “Nobody else come tonight. You two in this room, eh? Next door
each other for company.”

She withdrew, leaving the two girls together. Mollie clasped her hands
ecstatically.

“Oh, my dear!” she said. “What do you think of it all?”

“Well,” confessed Rita, looking about her, “personally I feel rather
nervous.”

“My dear!” cried Mollie. “_I_ am simply quivering with delicious
terror!”

Rita became silent again, looking about her, and listening. The harsh
voice of the Cuban-Jewess could be heard from a neighboring room, but
otherwise a perfect stillness reigned in the house of Sin Sin Wa. She
remembered that Mrs. Sin had said, “It is quiet—so quiet.”

“The idea of undressing and reclining on these divans in real oriental
fashion,” declared Mollie, giggling, “makes me feel that I am an
odalisque already. I have dreamed that I was an odalisque, dear—after
smoking, you know. It was heavenly. At least, I don’t know that
‘heavenly’ is quite the right word.”

And now that evil spirit of abandonment came to Rita—communicated to
her, possibly, by her companion. Dread, together with a certain sense
of moral reluctance, departed, and she began to enjoy the adventure at
last. It was as though something in the faintly perfumed atmosphere of
the place had entered into her blood, driving out reserve and stifling
conscience.

When Sir Lucien reappeared she ran to him excitedly, her charming face
flushed and her eyes sparkling.

“Oh, Lucy,” she cried, “how long will our things be? I’m keen to
smoke!”

His jaw hardened, and when he spoke it was with a drawl more marked
than usual.

“Mareno will be here almost immediately,” he answered.

The tone constituted a rebuff, and Rit

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