CHAPTER VII

Apparently Anthony had not observed this specter.

Peter seized his arm, the left one. "We must start. Wake them up."

Anthony shook a nervous negative. "I've tried. That wine!"

"_Arracka_. Comes from Java. Tastes like May wine, and is stronger

than cognac." He was tilting Peggy's chin, shaking her head. No

response. He tried the same experiment with Helen, and begot identical

results.

Romola Borria had vanished.

Peter stepped out first, supporting his limp freight with his left arm,

and in his right brandishing a revolver. He hoped it wouldn't be

necessary and he was sure that underneath the splendid varnish of

Anthony's fine bravado larked the belief that this entire evening was

nothing more than an exciting romantic game.

In the pinch, would Anthony react after the fashion of

heroes-to-the-manner-born, or would the sight and smell of blood, if it

Was written that blood be shed, unnerve him, make him out to be what he

was at heart, the secretary of a prosperous and peaceful plow company?

On his part, Anthony was still babbling incoherently but earnestly,

impressing upon Peter the undeniable virtues of the golden wine. He

was not prepared, although the nickeled revolver still flashed in his

unoccupied hand, for the tumultuous event which was being shaped for

the two of them around the corner.

They did not attain the outer door. Out of the drab recesses leaped

dusky shadows. There seemed to be a large number of jostling men;

perhaps only three or four were at hand by actual count; the

insufficient lighting and their shocking and determined appearance lent

them plurality.

A sparkling flame roared from the hand of the foremost of these before

Peter could bring his hand out of his pocket.

Anthony's nickeled revolver went off twice, from his hip, and the giant

faltered, going back shapelessly among the shadows from which he had

emerged.

Peter's original scheme to hack a way through the line underwent hasty

revision. Escape would have to be made by different channels, and his

only choice was the device nearest at hand. It was a long chance, an

aimless one, perhaps, fraught with new, dangers and complications. But

he did not hesitate.

Beating off a hand that pawed for his shoulder, he flung open the door

which faced the dwelling's entrance, and pushed the reluctant Anthony

inside.

Peter locked the door, throwing a bench across it for temporary

barricade, then lit candles, wondering if any one would have had enough

foresight to disconnect the aerial wires. He dropped his burden to the

divan against the side wall, and examined Anthony, who had gone very

pale. He was shaking, and his gray eyes seemed to have climbed half

way out of his head. He propped Peggy tenderly beside her sister, and

laid an unsteady hand upon Peter's shoulder. He seemed to be fighting

down a very definite fear.

Peter was backing toward the apparatus. "Watch the door. If any one

tries to break in, shoot straight at the sound! You're not hurt, are

you? Did that fellow get you?"

Anthony shivered all over. "Christ!" he muttered. His lips were

white. "That man! I shot him! He's dead! Dead!"

"And we are still alive," said Peter quietly.

He sat down at the instrument table, fixed silvery disks to his ears,

twanged the detector wire and made a few quick alterations in

connections. Fortunately his inspection of the equipment earlier in

the day had given him a grasp of its arrangement. In an instant he had

the tuner adjusted, was listening, with those keen ears of his focussed

for the ethereal voices which might be abroad at this untimely hour.

Distant splashes of heat lightning occurred faintly, like the quivering

of sensitive metal.

Casting a glance over his shoulder, to make sure that Anthony was

following instructions, he rearranged levers and lowered the heavy

switch which drew upon the storage batteries underneath the table.

He tapped the large brass key experimentally. A hissing blue spark

lighted up the walls and his features in a ghostly glow. Tightening

the vibrator at the terminus of the rubber-covered coil, he spelled out

an inquiry in the International Code. Any station within hearing would

answer that call.

He wondered if the Shanghai station was closed up for the night, or if

by any chance his assistant on the _King of Asia_ would be on the job.

Peter waited for several anxious moments, with no sound in the

telephones other than the faint spattering of the lightning down the

coast. Then his inquiry was given a response, startlingly harsh and

close.

The station might have been across the street, the signals were beating

in his ears so loudly. The operator was having some difficulty

adjusting his spark; it was rough, ragged, like the drumming of

hailstones on a metal roof.

A series of test letters followed, exasperatingly slow.

"V--V--V--V---- What station is that? This is the _Madrusa_."

Peter hesitated, although interference was unlikely. He felt

tremendously relieved. The _Madrusa's_ rough spark meant more to him

than help close by. He knew the _Madrusa_ well; a gray, swift gunboat,

lying close to the water, whose purpose was to sweep the lower

Whang-poo and Yangtze clear of pirates. She could spit streams of

bullets for hours without let-up. And the knowledge of her closeness

to this death-trap keyed him up, not entirely because she was manned by

British sailors who would rather fight than eat. His hand reached out

for the key.

"Who is on watch? This is Peter Moore. That you, Johnny Driggs?"

If the man at the _Madrusa's_ key did happen to be Jonathan Driggs, he

could afford to breathe more easily. Driggs was another man who had

found in China the irresistible attraction, and who for some years had

sat behind the radio machines of many ships that plied these yellow

waters.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" roared the _Madrusa's_ spark. "Where are you? What

are you doing up at this time of night playing with a baby coil?"

For the next three minutes the spitting blue spark flared and jumped as

Peter spelled out his plight. He sketched their predicament by

abbreviated code, and he impressed upon his friend the necessity for

utter secrecy, hoping that the night had no other ears.

"Damn it!" replied the quick fingers of the gunboat's operator. "Damn

it! But I can't get shore leave! Impossible--you can guess why! Our

gunnery officer, Lieutenant Milton Raynard, is jumping to go! He'll

fetch you five or six sailors. He knows the lay of the land, and I've

sketched him a map of the locality from your description. Cinch!

They'll be off at once, soon as they can get the engine started in the

launch. Don't give up the ship, old boy! Don't----"

Peter dropped the receiver, walked over to the divan and endeavored to

awaken the girls, slapping their hands, shaking them. They did not

appear to be drugged. Evidently they had underestimated the power of

the smooth, yellow _arracka_. Faint color glowed in their cheeks, and

under the treatment Peggy slowly opened one very sleepy brown eye.

It drooped again. She muttered something that was not intelligible.

It had something to do with a princess, and even that word was

indistinct.

Anthony lifted a cautioning hand. "Some one's outside," he whispered.

Slowly, as they watched it, the knob described a single revolution.

Anthony lifted his revolver. "Who is there?"

"Let me in!" It was Romola Borria.

"Open the door," said Peter quietly, stepping aside.

Anthony removed the bench, twisted the key.

"You must not go with them," Romola whispered.

"Shut the door--put the bench back," directed Peter. He followed

Romola across the room.

Evidently she had read the spark. "Let these people go--yes! But you

remain. You will--or won't you?"

Peter looked skeptical. "Why should I? I've decided that life is

pretty sweet, after all! Why haven't Jen and his gang broken in here?

Why is he waiting? Have you told him help is coming?"

She shrugged impatiently. "I have not seen Jen. I have talked with no

one."

"Then you will stay in this room until we leave?"

"But why did you send for them? It was foolish! How will you explain?"

"They are friends. Such men ask no questions."

"But there was no need!" She made a despairing gesture with her hands.

"Your friends could have gone safely. Jen has no interest in--_them_!"

Peter nodded indifferently. "But my ship sails."

"Very good. But you must not leave this house until sunrise."

"When the sailors come from the _Madrusa_ I shall walk out of here----"

"And into the arms of death, Peter!"

Peter lighted a cigarette and puffed thoughtfully in silence. Romola's

gaze was upon his lips, as though the next words he would utter meant

to her the difference between life and death.

And what he might have said was forestalled by a heavy battering at the

outer door. These deep vibrations seemed on the sudden to stir Peggy

out of her sleep. She sat upright, digging fists into tired eyes.

"Gracious! Where's everybody?"

The hammering ceased, and a high-pitched crash followed an instant of

hush.

"The men from the _Madrusa_!" cried Anthony. He dragged the bench

away; flung the door open with a grand gesture.

And into the room strode a blandly smiling Chinese, magnificent in gold

and blue and red. He was flanked by three large and watchful coolies,

armed with clubs.

"Mr. Moore; I am the man from the Jen Kee Road place!" He radiated a

splendid calm.

Peggy cowered against her sister, with a look of sleepy mystification,

while Anthony, glancing to Peter for command, was fingering his

revolver in anxious indecision. Already one of the coolies was sidling

toward him.

"You were a deck coolie this morning," Peter replied.

The Chinese took a step toward him. Peter felt Romola cringe at his

side. He wondered at this.

"Shall we wait until sunrise, or----"

A sudden babble of men's voices on the other side of the partition

checked the Chinese, while a look of misunderstanding came over his

bland countenance.

"Moore! Moore! Where are you?" These were the rich tones of a man

accustomed to command.

And instantly the small room seemed to be overflowing with the white

and blue of uniforms.

Peggy stood straight up with a wondering gasp. Confronting her was a

tall and handsome youth with the gold-and-black epaulets of his

majesty's service at the shoulder-straps of his splendid white uniform.

A cutlass in a nickeled case hung from a polished leather belt, and

depending from it also was an empty leather holster. Gripped

threateningly in his right hand was a blue revolver.

The shrill voice of the man from the Jen Kee Road place rose sharply

above the momentary tumult.

In this quick confusion a pale, obnoxious odor, like opium fresh from

the poppy, yet with the savor of almonds, flooded Peter's throat. He

was vaguely aware of a fumbling in his coat-pocket. Explosions sounded

as from afar and a vast redness settled down and encompassed the world.

The interval of dark was surprisingly short-lived. Swimming in and out

of his distorted vision was a face. He was conscious for a while of no

other impression. The face reeled, came closer--danced away from him!

Bright eyes sparkled, leaped, and hung motionless.

He inhaled a new perfume, deliciously like flowers in a summer meadow.

It injected fresh life into him. His hands found power, and he

clutched at a soft wrist. The owner of this face was talking eagerly.

"We are alone--alone!"

With great effort he found he could incline his head a little. He was

struggling. Hot vapors clogged his brain. Where were the girls,

Anthony, the young lieutenant from the _Madrusa_?

"Where are they?"

"Safe."

He could recognize the features now distinctly; yet they stirred up in

him no longer a feeling of repugnance, but a vague longing.

"Romola!"

"Yes, Peter. You are feeling stronger?"

"What am I doing here? What is this place?"

"We are in the cellar."

It was very dim, with an odor of moldy dampness. The rock foundation,

the walls, and floor were perspiring whitely.

Peter's brain became clogged again. The voice came to him softly but

quite distinctly, with each word clear and emphatic:

"He is waiting outside. They will not dare come into my house again!"

"I am dizzy. Who will not dare? Who is outside?" he demanded feebly.

"The man from the Jen Kee Road place. He is waiting outside that

window. No, No! He cannot see. It is covered with silk."

Peter fell back against the arm. "What does he want?"

"Your answer. I told him to wait. I promised him; I will hold the

candle to the window."

"But I am dizzy," he groaned. "I do not understand."

"Once--means 'yes.' Twice--means 'no.'"

He delivered every ounce of his mental energy against the drug in his

brain; it was like struggling against the tide. "Once--means 'yes?'

Twice--means 'no?'" The meaning suddenly became clear to him. "The

up-river trip?"

She nodded slowly, anxiously. "And twice--means death, also, Peter!"

He tried to drag himself erect, tried to twist his head, and he sank

back with a bitter groan. "You drugged me!"

"There was no other way. I could not let you go into the night--into

death!"

A bitter smile came to his white lips. "I am quite powerless?"

"I--I am afraid you are, Peter."

"If I decide yes--or if I decide no--how can I defend myself?"

"You are quite helpless," she confessed in a whisper. "No. You cannot

defend yourself." Her expression showed an inward struggle. "You are

in my hands. You are in my arms! Yes! What have you to say?"

The smile of bitterness came and flickered again over his pale lips.

He tried to throw back his head, but the redness was settling down upon

him again. "What shall I say?" he muttered. "I say--two lights! I

say--no! _No_!"

The fingers at his neck were icy. Gently he was lowered to the

pavement.

Romola had taken the candle down from the rafter, and she went swiftly

to the tiny window. She raised her hand, once, then pinched out the

flame between her fingers.