CHAPTER IX

The bund of Shanghai was striped with the long, purple shadows of

coming night, a night which seemed to be creeping out of the heart of

the land, ushering with it a feeling of subtle tension, as though the

touch of darkness stirred to wakefulness a populace of shadows, which

skulked and crouched and whispered, comprising an underworld of

sinister folk which the first glow of dawn would send scampering back

to a thousand evil-smelling hiding-places.

The rhythmic chant of coolies on the river ended. Mammoth go-downs,

where the products of China flowed on their way to distant countries,

became gloomily silent and empty. Handsome, tall sikhs, the police of

the city, appeared in twos and threes where only one had been stationed

before; for in China, as elsewhere, wickedness is borne on the night's

wings.

With the descent of the velvety darkness the late wireless operator of

the transpacific greyhound, the _Vandalia_, slipped out of an obscure,

shadowy doorway on Nanking Road and directed his steps toward the

glittering bund, where he was reasonably sure his enemies would have

difficulty in recognizing him.

Peter's uniform now reposed on a dark shelf in the rear of a silkshop.

He had no desire to be stabbed in the back, which was a probability in

case certain up-river men should find him. The Chinese gentleman who

conducted the silkshop was an old friend, and trustworthy.

Peter now wore the garb of a Japanese merchant. His feet were

sandaled. His straight, lithe figure was robed in an expensive gray

silk kimono. Jammed tight to his ears, in good Nipponese fashion, was

a black American derby. His eyebrows were penciled in a fairly

praiseworthy attempt to reproduce the Celestial slant, and he carried a

light bamboo cane.

Yet the ex-operator of the _Vandalia_ was not altogether sure that the

disguise was a success. If the scowling yellow face he had detected

among the throngs on the bund that morning should have followed him to

the silk-shop, of what earthly use was this silly disguise?

He padded along in the lee of a money-changer's, keeping close to the

wall. By degrees he became aware that he was followed; and he

endeavored to credit the feeling to imagination, to raw nerves. A

ghostly rickshaw flitted by. The soft chugging of the coolie's bare

feet became faint, ceased. A muttering old woman waddled past.

He looked behind him in time to see a gaunt face, lighted by the dim

glow of a shop window, bob out of sight into a doorway. Turning again

a moment later, he saw the man dive into another doorway.

Peter ran to the dark aperture, seized a muscular, satin-covered arm,

and dragged a whispering Chinese, a big, brawny fellow, into the

circular zone of the yellow street-light. Quickly recovering from his

surprise, the Chinese reached swiftly toward his belt. Peter, hoping

that only one man had been set on his trail, gave a murderous yell, and

at the same time drove his fist into a yielding paunch.

With a groan the Chinese staggered back against the shop window, caving

in a pane with his elbow. Peter raised his fist to strike again.

Then a monumental figure, with a clean turban coiled about his head,

strode austerely into the circle of yellow light.

"_Ta dzoh sh[=e]n m[=o] szi_?"

"Thief," said Moore simply, indicating the broken shop window.

"L[=a]o sh[=e]n l[=a]o sh[=e]n!" growled the sikh. He seized the

luckless window-breaker by both shoulders, backed him against an iron

trolley-post, and strapped him to it.

With a jovial, "Allah be with you!" Peter Moore continued his stroll

toward the bund. Now that the trailer was out of his way for the night

at least, he could make his way in peace to the Palace bar and find out

what might be in the wind for him.

As he crossed Nanking Road where it joined the bund, a frantic shout,

mingled with a scream of fear or of warning, impelled him to leap out

of the path of a rickshaw which was making for him at a breakneck

speed. A white face, with a slender gloved hand clutched close to the

lips, swept past.

Peter gasped in surprise quite as staggering as if the girl in the

rickshaw had slapped him across the face. He shouted after her. But

she went right on, without turning.

"Licksha?" A grinning coolie dropped the shafts of an empty rickshaw

at Peter Moore's heels.

He ceased being angry as a softer glow crept into his veins. The

rickshaw turned to the right, following the other, which occupied the

center of the almost deserted bund, and speeding like the wind.

"_Ní chü bà_!" shouted Peter Moore. The girl seemed to be headed for

the bund bridge. But why? A number of questions stormed futilely in

his brain. Why had the girl ignored him? Why had she not gone aboard

the _Manchuria_, as she had promised?

The coolie joggled along, his naked legs rising and falling

mechanically. The wireless operator drew the folds of the kimono more

closely about his throat, for the night air blowing off the Whang-poo

was chill and damp.

At the bridge the rickshaw ahead suddenly stopped, waiting. Peter

Moore drew alongside, and leaped to the ground.

The near-by street-light afforded him the information that he had made

a mistake. Undeniably similar to the girl he had sent away on the

_Manchuria_ that morning was the young lady in the rickshaw. She had

the same white, wistful face, the same alert, appealing eyes, the same

rosebud mouth. Any one might have made such a mistake. It was very

embarrassing.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded.

"I thought I knew you. I am sorry. I'll go at once."

"No! Wait." Her volte relented. It was a fresh young voice, not

indeed unlike that of Miss Lorimer's. She was smiling. "Why are you

dressed as a Jap?"

"I am sorry," Peter faltered, retreating. "Mistake. You're not the

girl I--I expected. _Sayonara_!"

"_Please_ don't run away," said the girl with a soft laugh. "I'm not

afraid, or I would have run, instead of waiting, when you followed me.

I've just come up from Amoy--alone. And I leave to-morrow for

Ching-Fu--alone. You're American!" she murmured. "But why the

Jap--disguise? I'm American, too. I used to live in New York, on

Riverside Drive. Oh! It must have been ages ago!"

"Why?" asked Peter unguardedly.

"I haven't met one of my countrymen in centuries! And to-morrow I go

up the river, 'way beyond Ching-Fu, beyond Szechwan!"

"Bad travelling on the river this time of the year," Peter murmured

politely. "She's out of her banks up above Ichang, I have been told."

"Yes," replied the girl sadly. "If I could only have just one evening

of fun--a dance or two, maybe--I--I--wouldn't mind half so much.

I--I----"

Peter advised himself as follows: I told you so. Aloud he said:

"I believe there's a dance at the Astor Hotel. If we can get a

table----"

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed the girl. "Do--do you mind very--much?"

"Tickled to death," Peter declared amiably.