CHAPTER XVIII

At about five o'clock the next afternoon Peter, in his hotel bedroom,

called for a pitcher of ice-water, the major portion of which he

disposed of before considering the next move.

Afternoon sunlight, entering by the single large window, mapped out a

radiant oblong of red on the heavy carpet. The long, insolent shriek

of a taxicab arose from the square. The bedroom was redolent of the

sour odor of last night's cigarette smoke. He had forgotten, for

perhaps the first time in his memory, to throw open the window upon

retiring. As he arose stiffly from the bed an empty brown bottle

bounded to the floor with a thump, and the latter riotous portion of

last evening came slowly back to him. He had decided to do something.

What had he made up his mind to do? He sat down on the edge of the bed

with his head in his hands and frowned. He remembered now.

He was going back to China!

With a throbbing head and a recurrence of the sticky feeling in his

mouth, he stripped off his pajamas, went into the bath-room, and

shivered and grunted under an icy shower for five minutes, by which

time some of the despondency which last night's affair had brought over

him was shaken, his headache was loosened a bit, his wits were more

clearly in hand, and the warm blood was shooting through him.

After a brisk rub-down he dressed quickly--he had barely had time

enough to recover his suit-cases from the San Friole baggage-room when

he had fled--and put in a call for the Marconi office.

Shortly he had the chief operator on the wire, and he explained briefly

that out-of-town business had interfered with his calling the day

before, but that he would drop around for a conference bright and early

the next morning. He added that he intended to take the _King of Asia_

back to China.

When he entered the chief operator's cubicle, the chief operator looked

into the face of a man who had aged, a white, sad face, the face of a

man who had found the sample of life he had tasted to be a bitter

mouthful.

"Back again, as I live!" he chirruped, pumping Peter's hand

exuberantly. "Where now, Peter?"

"China," said Peter; "my old love, the _King of Asia_, sails to-morrow.

Can I have her?"

"Sure thing! By the way, here's a special delivery letter for you in

the mail that hasn't been assorted--a nice square envelope. Looks to

me like a wedding invitation!"

Peter examined the square, white envelope.

A wedding invitation with a San Friole canceling stamp.

Absently he dropped it into his pocket.

Making his way to the St. Francis he found that San Toy Fong had

departed for parts unknown. So he sat down at a desk in the

writing-room, and penned a brief note, addressing it in care of Ah Sih

King. He knew that the letter would reach San Toy Fong as rapidly as a

grape-vine telegraph could deliver it to him. He knew that it would be

opened, coded and transmitted to the second coil of the vast, hidden

government, wherever he might be--from Singapore to Singapore.

The import of that note was simply that he, Peter Moore, was returning

to China, and promised to interfere in no way with the band's

activities. If he should change his mind, he added, he would file

notice of such decision with the duly accredited agents of Len Yang's

monarch at the Jen Kee Road place, in Shanghai.

The purple shoulders of the Golden Gate were sinking into the

silver-tipped waves when Peter, having despatched his clearance

message, left the tireless cabin for a look at the glorious red sunset

and a breath of the fresh Pacific air.

A room steward, who had just ascended the iron ladder, approached,

touching his cap with a deferential forefinger. "A letter addressed to

you, sir. Found it in the corridor outside your stateroom. Must have

fallen from your pocket."

The wedding invitation with a San Friole date-mark!

With nerveless fingers Peter drew out, not an envelope, but a stiff

card. And he stared at the card in the red twilight, and groaned in

pain and astonishment.

Have I said that this was St. Valentine's Day? In the color of the

dying sun, and painted carefully by hand, was a tiny heart, bleeding.

And that was the only message.