CHAPTER XVI

WHEREIN UNEXPECTED ALLIES APPEAR

Although, as shall be seen, the final and complete defeat and extinction of the London section of the Young Manchus were directly due to forces set in motion by Furneaux, it was Winter's painstaking way of covering the ground that unearthed the fraternity's meeting place, and thus brought matters to a head speedily. For the rest, events followed their own course, and great would have been the fame of the prophet who predicted that course accurately.

In later days, when more ample knowledge was available, it was a debatable point whether or not the inmates of No. 11 Fortescue Square were saved from an almost maniacal vengeance by the fact that a crisis was precipitated. Winter maintained stoutly that the police must triumph in the long run, whereas Furneaux held, with even greater tenacity, that although the gang would undoubtedly be broken up, that much-desired end might have been attained after, and not before, a dire tragedy occurred in the Forbes household.

The pros and cons of the argument were equally numerous and weighty. They cannot be marshaled here. Each man and woman who reads this record will probably form an emphatic opinion tending toward the one side or the other. All that a veracious chronicler can accomplish is to set forth a plain tale of events in their proper sequence, and leave the ultimate verdict to individual judgment.

Winter was a hard-headed, broad-minded official, whose long and wide experience enabled him to estimate at their true value the far-reaching powers of the State as opposed to the machinations of a few determined outlaws. On the other hand, the amazing facility with which Furneaux could enter into the twists and turns of the criminal mind entitles his matured views to much respect.

At any rate, this is what happened.

Winter was sitting in his office, smoking a fat cigar, and wading through reports brought in by subordinates concerning every opium den and Chinese boarding house in the East End, when Furneaux entered.

"Any luck?" inquired the chief, laying aside one document which seemed to merit fuller inquiry; it described a club much frequented by Chinese residents in London, men of a higher class than the sailors and firemen brought to the port by ships trading with the Far East, and an outstanding feature of the Young Manchus' operations was the intelligent grasp of the ways and means of modern civilized life these filibusters exhibited.

"So-so," squeaked Furneaux.

He flung himself into a big armchair, curled up in it like an animated Buddha, and extracted one of the three ivory skulls from a waistcoat pocket.

"If you could only speak, you image of evil!" he muttered. "You're not so dead that you cannot work mischief. Why the deuce, then, can't you mouth your incantations? Then we would listen and learn."

Winter, still sorting his papers, cocked the cigar inquisitively on one side of his mouth.

"Oh, I have ascertained a lot about the inner politics of China," mumbled Furneaux, irritably, gazing fixedly at the skull after one quick glance of his colleague. "Every little helps, of course. I have met some Chinamen this morning who would cheerfully plunge Wong Li Fu into a cauldron of boiling oil, and stir him round with a long stick when he was in it. One man, quite an important personage in the jute line, has lost a brother and a brother-in-law, the one in Canton, the other in Pekin, and he lays both deaths at the door of the redoubtable Wong. Another, the fellow who chanced to take up his quarters at Smith's Hotel, is a delegate sent here specially to hunt out Wong, and destroy him. I asked him how he meant to set about it, but his scheme is vague. He's an opportunist of the first water. 'Me catchee and killee Wong Li Fu one time,' was his best effort. I'm going to confront Len Shi with these two in Bow Street. They may worm something out of him. But will they own up if they do? Dashed if I know. The Oriental mind is on a par with their blessed language. It has three thousand ways of expressing one idea, and not one of 'em is our way."

"Has Theydon gone to Fortescue Square?"

"I suppose so. He turned up in Jermyn Street— outside Smith's Hotel, if you please, with a lady in a taxi."

"A lady? Miss Beale?"

"No, his sister, judging from the family likeness. His eyes grew goggled like yours when he saw the gray car."

"Didn't you explain matters?"

"Not I. Gave him the cut direct. My Chinamen are shy birds, and I daren't flutter them by letting them think there are too many foreign devils mixed up in the business. My London Chinaman was the brainy person who got the Embassy busy when Mrs. Lester's death was announced. He saw Wong Li Fu's hand in that from the first moment. Oddly enough, though he and a man from the Embassy followed Theydon from Waterloo to Forbes's place on Tuesday night, and again to Innesmore Mansions, he didn't recognize him today. Or perhaps he did. I don't know. Talk about the impassive Red Indian! A thoroughbred Chink would give a Pawnee chief one glass eye and a coat of paint, and then beat him hollow at the haughty indifference game."

"My!" said Winter admiringly, "you've got your tongue loose today. Well, here's an item which should prove useful. Whitechapel thinks we may find a Young Manchu or two among that collection," and he threw an official memorandum across the table.

Furneaux repocketed the skull, and was gazing moodily at the report, when a uniformed constable announced that a boy messenger wished to see a "detective" with regard to the typed letter delivered at Mr. Forbes's house on Wednesday evening.

"Show him up," said the chief, and a smart-looking boy, wearing the familiar uniform of his corps, was brought in. He glanced around inquiringly.

"Oh, you're the gentleman who came to our Piccadilly office," he said to Winter.

"Yes."

"Well, sir, I haven't very much to tell you, but it was I who took the letter to Fortescue Square. I saw the sender, a foreign-looking gentleman, he was, with funny eyes, and I think I spotted him again this afternoon. He was coming out of a house in Charlotte Street."

"Are you sure?" demanded Winter, quickly.

"He was awful like the man who engaged me, sir, and dressed the same way."

"Did you notice the number of the house?"

"Yes, sir. No. 412."

"Quite certain about that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy. If your information is of any service I'll take care you are not forgotten."

The boy saluted and went out.

"We must look up No. 412," said Winter, quietly; but there was a ring of genuine satisfaction in his voice, because the clew promised well, and it was a complete justification of the straightforward method he adopted in every inquiry, whereas Furneaux invariably preferred an abstruse theory to a definite piece of evidence.

The Jersey man's face had wrinkled as a preliminary to some sarcastic comment on what he termed the "handcuff" way of reasoning, when the telephone bell rang. Winter answered, and at once his self-possessed air fled. Indeed, it was a very angry man who listened, because a subordinate was telephoning from Fortescue Square a full account of the shooting outrage.

The Chief gave a few curt instructions as to securing the adequate cooperation of the local police, who should take measures to render any repetition of such daring tactics absolutely impossible.

"No one was injured, you say?" he added.

"No, sir."

"Were the ladies very much frightened?"

"They've gone back to finish luncheon, sir."

"Good. Evidently they're all of the right breed. You can tell them I said so, if you like. Assure Mr. Forbes that every care will be taken to protect his house in future. See that strong patrols occupy every point from which a gun can be aimed at any window, even the attics, in No. 11. Phone me again when you have discussed matters with the district superintendent."

The receiver clanged back into its hook. Winter had not foreseen this latest move. "Sheer impudence," he termed it.

"More bullets?" inquired Furneaux laconically.

"Yes. A long-range attack from across the square. Four shots lodged in dining room."

"No one hurt, and no one arrested?"

"Not a soul."

"James," said the little man solemnly, "Wong Li Fu is making us a laughing-stock. Are you aware that the newspapers will get on our track now? Can't you see the headlines?— 'Another Sidney Street.' 'Chinese Pirates Busy in London.' 'Scotland Yard Outwitted.' By this time tomorrow the Commissioner will be suggesting that you and I ought to think about retiring on pensions."

Winter jumped up, overturning a chair in his haste.

"Come!" he said. "If that Chinaman in Bow Street won't speak, I'll torture him. What of the other fellow who was caught near Innesmore Mansions?"

"He's a Jap. He knows nothing. He was hired for the job— to put any interfering bobby to sleep."

The chief inspector angrily bundled some papers into a drawer, and threw away his cigar, which he had allowed to go out. Furneaux produced an ivory skull again, and scowled at it, whereupon his superior, snorting with annoyance, strode to the window, and affected an interest he was far from feeling in the panorama of the Thames.

And thus they passed a harmonious quarter of an hour, which came to an end with the appearance of an attendant to announce the arrival of "two Chinese gentlemen to see Mr. Furneaux."

They went down in the elevator without exchanging a word. At the entrance stood the gray car, in which the Chinamen were already seated. Furneaux introduced the chief inspector, and they were whisked to Bow Street. There in a cell they found Len Shi, a somewhat sullen-looking man whose European chauffeur's livery seemed curiously raffish and unsuitable when contrasted with the more picturesque if sober-hued garments worn by his fellow-countrymen.

At first he maintained the sulky know-nothing role which he had adopted successfully with the official interpreter. Furneaux, watching the faces of prisoner and questioners, guessed that small progress was being made, so, waiting until Len Shi was evidently quite satisfied with himself, he suddenly thrust an ivory skull before the man's eyes. The result was unexpected but puzzling. The man was badly scared, beyond doubt, but he now became obstinately silent.

Winter, than whom no living actor could play up better to Furneaux's tactics in a touch-and-go encounter of this sort, assumed a highly tragic air.

"Handcuff that man, and bring him out!" he said to the constable in charge of the cells.

Len Shi blanched. He estimated the legal methods of Great Britain by those which obtained in his own land, and probably thought he was being led forth to immediate execution.

The whole five crowded into the car, and the driver, the same English chauffeur to whom Theydon had spoken, was told to make for 412 Charlotte Street, and pass the house slowly, but not pull up. Len Shi, though quaking with alarm, bore himself with a certain dignified stoicism until he found out where the car was apparently stopping. Then he said something in a panic-stricken voice and the jute merchant, who spoke English fluently, turned to Furneaux.

"Tell the chauffeur to return," he said. "Len Shi will now confess."

Once started, Len Shi talked volubly. The others merely put in a question now and then, and the detectives curbed their impatience as best they might until Len Shi was safely lodged in Bow Street again.

Then Winter led his Chinese helpers into an inner office and closed the door.

"Well?" he said, addressing the jute merchant. The other Chinaman had very little English and could not maintain a conversation.

But, to the chief inspector's surprise and wrath, the English-speaking Chinaman had only a request to make.

"Give me and my friend those three ivory skulls," he said.

"Why?" he said.

"Without them we can accomplish nothing."

"Be good enough to explain yourself. Above all, tell me what Len Shi has been jabbering about. He had plenty to say."

"He told us of the fate of our friends in China. Those things do not concern you. What you want is to have Wong Li Fu and the others— there are nearly twenty in all— delivered into your hands. Very well. Give us those ivory skulls, and bring your men to that house in Charlotte Street, at one o'clock this night, and you will take them without a blow being struck."

"That is our business, not yours," said Winter, gruffly decisive. "I cannot expose you two gentlemen to any personal risk in this affair. Kindly—"

"You do not understand," broke in the jute merchant, addressing the burly representative of the Criminal Investigation Department as if he were a fractious child who must be informed as to the why and wherefore of a disagreeable duty. "What will you do? Surround the house with policemen, break in the doors, and fight? You may, or may not succeed. Some, plenty, of your men will certainly be killed. That is not good. We do not wish it. Give me those skulls. I and my friend will go there. You come at one o'clock, tap so on the door, and we will admit you. Then you take Wong Li Fu and all the others. There will be no fight."

The Chinaman's manner was singularly impressive as he tapped three times on a high desk to emphasize, as it were, his instructions. The sound, too, was curious. He did not use his knuckles, but bunched the fingers of his right hand together, and rapped on the wood with the long nails which are a mark of distinction in his race.

"We make things easy and certain for you," he added, more by way of painstaking argument than because any further explanation was really necessary. "You do not wish to fail, no? You want to be sure that Wong Li Fu's evil deeds shall be stopped? Good. We do that— I and my friend. We can pass the door-keepers. Can you? No. At one o'clock we open the door and the Young Manchus will be wholly in your power, to do with them what you will. I promise that, and my word is always taken in the city."

Winter turned troubled eyes on Furneaux.

"What do you say?" he muttered irresolutely.

"I think the plan is a good one, and should be adopted," was the instant reply.

Nevertheless, Winter was perplexed. He hemmed and hawed a good deal. Seldom did he hesitate in this fashion. As a rule, he was quick to decide and quicker to act.

"I might entertain your scheme if I were told more about it," he said dubiously, gazing with troubled eyes at the Chinaman's blandly inscrutable face. "Please believe me when I say that I trust your good faith, but I am not sure that even you understand fully the nature of the adventure you have in mind. Wong Li Fu has already committed one murder in London. He has attempted others, and is absolutely careless of consequences. How can I have any guarantee that you and this other gentleman may not be his next victims? He is a person who displays a somewhat forced humor. We might enter the Charlotte Street house at one o'clock and find your corpses there, with labels and ivory skulls neatly attached."

"That will not be so," was the grave answer.

"If I agree, what time do you propose going there?"

"About midnight."

"And do you expect the police to leave the whole neighborhood severely alone for another hour?"

"Not unless you wish it. If you so desire you can occupy both ends of the street, and arrest every Chinaman coming away from No. 412, but let those pass who go towards it."

"Will others go there— friends of yours, I mean?"

" Oh, yes. We will overpower the Young Manchus by taking them unaware. We will act quietly, but there will be no mistake. It is you who will err if you do not accept our help."

Then Winter yielded, though not with a good grace. The implied suggestion that the London police could not handle a set of Mongolian ruffians was utterly distasteful, yet he admitted, though unwillingly, that he did not want to sacrifice some of his best men in rushing the place.

"All right," he said. "Hand over the skulls, Furneaux! It is quite agreed," he went on, addressing the Chinaman again, "that I have full liberty of action in so far as preliminary arrangements are concerned? I see your point that Wong Li Fu must not be forewarned, and shall take care that my men are hidden. I have your positive assurance, too, that you are not exposing your own life in any way?"

"To the best of my belief I shall be as safe in Charlotte Street as I am here," said the jute merchant, smiling for the first time during the interview.

"One! Two! Three!" said Furneaux, counting the skulls into the Chinaman's outstretched hand.

For some reason, the action, no less than the words, jarred on Winter.

"I do wish you wouldn't be so d——d theatrical!" he growled.

Furneaux said nothing. He accompanied the chief inspector when the latter escorted the two Chinamen to their car, and whistled softly between his teeth while Winter and he were walking to Scotland Yard. The big man glowered at him once or twice, but passed no comment. When they reached the Embankment, Winter took Furneaux to his room, but left him instantly. He was absent a long time. When he came in again he was cheerfully placid.

Walking toward their favorite restaurant in Soho, they met a newsboy running with an edition of an evening newspaper damp from the press. The boy was shouting, "'Orrible crime in the West End; Chinese outrage!" Furneaux bought a paper. It contained a lively account of the attack on Mr. Forbes's house and described the mansion as an armed fortress. Scores of police were parading the neighborhood and examining every passing motor car lest it held Chinese bandits. The arrest of Len Shi at St. Albans, and of a Japanese outside Innesmore Mansions, was recalled, and an Eastbourne correspondent had sent a fairly accurate version of the kidnaping of Mrs. Forbes.

"The pack is in full cry now, James," grinned Furneaux. "Tomorrow—"

"O, bother tomorrow! Let's eat, and talk about something else."

"What? Both? Well, now, if that isn't a bit of luck," cried a pleasant voice close behind them, and Mr. George T. Handyside held out his two hands.

"I was feeling kind of lonesome in the hotel, and just strolled out to look at the shops," he rattled on. "Say, can you boys eat a line? Is there any place in London where they know what a planked steak is?"

"Planked steak!" snorted Furneaux. "When you've tasted a porterhouse steak grilled by a master hand you'll never mention any other variety again. Come right along, Mr. Handyside. Tell us fairy tales about God's own country. We're in the right mood to believe anything!"

"But what's this story of another shooting up in Fortescue Square? Is it true?"

Then Furneaux dug him in the ribs.

"This isn't the Wild and Woolly West," he said. "This is London, sir, poor, old, played-out London, whose beefy citizens do nothing but eat, talk cricket or golf, and sleep. If you credit the newspapers, you'll never get us in the right perspective."

Another newspaper boy raced past, bawling loudly.

"All a flam, is it?" said the American quizzically;

"No," said Winter, "it's the truth, and less than the truth. Let's hunt that steak, and we'll season the dish for you."

Winter never erred when he chose a man as a friend. He liked Handyside, and was half inclined to drop a hint in his ear as to the night's program, for the American had seen Wong Li Fu more than once, and might be useful for identification purposes.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SETTLEMENT

Now, Len Shi had communicated one vital fact to his compatriots which they had carefully concealed from the detectives. The opening campaign against Forbes had practically ended that day. Thenceforth, for a week, the Young Manchus meant to separate, revert to Chinese costume, live in Chinese boardinghouses in the East End, and thus utterly mislead and bamboozle the police, who, in their hunt for the miscreants, would be searching for Chinamen in European dress and living in European style.

Winter was in two minds whether or not to inform the inmates of No. 11 as to the contemplated raid on the Charlotte Street rendezvous. Ultimately, he decided to say nothing definite that evening. It was better that the threatened people and their guards should not relax their vigilance. "The best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley," and if, perchance, the jute merchant's plan, whatever it might be, miscarried, and some of the desperadoes escaped, they would be stirred to instant reprisals.

But there was no semblance of doubt or hesitation about the measures taken by the police. That night, from eleven o'clock onward, not even a prowling cat entered Charlotte Street without being seen by sharp eyes. Nearly opposite No. 412 was a large warehouse, with a back entrance a long way in the rear, and approached from another street.

At midnight three Chinamen appeared, turned into Charlotte Street from the south and shuffled on noiseless feet straight to No. 414. They knocked, and after some delay were admitted. A minute later three others came from the north, knocked on the door of No. 410 and disappeared, the delay, seemingly caused by a parley with some one within, being longer in this instance.

Afterward squads of Chinamen, exactly 25, all told, came from north and south in practically equal numbers and entered those two houses, but never a man entered, or passed, or came out of No. 412. These more numerous arrivals met with no hesitation on the part of the two doorkeepers. They entered without let or hindrance.

After that there was what is known in theatrical circles as a "stage wait." Charlotte Street, save for its loafers and an occasional belated resident of some dwelling other than those under observation, lapsed into its normal and utterly dismal gloom.

From 12:30 onwards, Winter, stationed on the south side, looked at his watch many times. A little man, mingling with the disreputable rascals on the north side, was similarly fidgety.

A tall, slim man, wearing a dark overcoat, who lurked in a doorway near Winter's post, blew the tip of the cigar he was smoking into a red glow so that he might look at his watch. Another tall man, rather more powerfully built, awaited developments with apparent unconcern. Mr. Handyside, in fact, was in the august company of the Commissioner of Police, and the latter, though eminently agreeable, nevertheless observed an Olympian attitude. Thus might Jove watch a gathering in the Pompic Way!

At 12:45 there was a stir. Out of 410 and 414 came 25 Chinamen. They gathered on the pavement, and did not attempt to walk away, though a sudden and concentrated advance was made by the two sets of loafers, while the doors of the warehouse opposite belched forth a startling array of constables in uniform.

Winter and Furneaux respectively headed the contingents from north and south. An inspector was in charge of the central body, and even a Chinaman who had not been a day in London must have realized that the intent of these swift-moving detachments was to cut off his escape if he meant flight. But not a Chinaman budged, save one, who seemed to recognize the chief inspector, because he stepped forward and said in suave tones:

"These men are my friends. The others are inside. They are quite safe. Kindly wait till one o'clock."

"I must understand what you mean, Mr. Li Chang," said Winter sternly; for some reason, he distrusted the smooth-spoken jute merchant. "Why have you visited these two houses, and not 412? And what do we gain by waiting here any longer? We must have been seen, and our purpose guessed."

"No," came the somewhat surprising answer. "No one in No. 412 is aware of your presence. We have taken care of that. As for the other houses, they provide the simplest means of access to the center one. Doorways have been made in the cellar walls and special staircases built. Consequently, if you broke open the door of 412 you would find the way barred by two other locked doors, while the occupants, if aroused, could escape from either or both of the next houses. We Chinese have a long acquaintance with the needs of a secret society. You may take it from me that the obvious way into or out of an opium den, for instance, is never the way used by the habitues."

By this time the commissioner, Handyside, Furneaux and the inspector had come up, and the five formed a little group in the center of a semicircle of detectives and police. There was absolutely no sign of life in any of the houses; save for the raiders and the stolid Orientals, the street itself was deserted. Many eyes, no doubt, were peering through darkened windows, but the denizens of Charlotte Street as a rule attend strictly to their own personal affairs when the police are in evidence.

"What do you advise, sire" said Winter, addressing the commissioner. "Mr. Li Chang wants us to make no move until one o'clock. It is only a matter of six or seven minutes."

"And what then? Are we to enter these other houses, and not No. 412?"

"Yes," said the Chinaman.

"Have you left the doors open?"

"No. They must be forced. But there are only small locks. The bolts are drawn."

"The places are apparently in complete darkness. My men must use their lamps, and may be attacked."

"No," said Li Chang simply. "There will be no fighting. Those Manchu dogs are helpless. We have seen to that."

"But how? Do you mean that they are stupefied?"

"Bound," said the Chinaman. "Tied hand and foot."

"Again then, may I ask, why wait?"

"It will be in order," was the calm reply. "I entered into an arrangement with you. I want to abide by it."

Winter breathed heavily. The ways of the Oriental were not his ways, but a bargain was a bargain, so what more could be said?

Suddenly, about two minutes to one o'clock, a curious crackling noise was heard, a column of sparks burst high above the steep roof of No. 412, and the upper windows of the opposite houses reflected a red glare.

"Good heavens! the place is on fire!" cried Winter.

Simultaneously came a shout from both ends of the street. Men were running from the detachment guarding the rear of the premises to say that a fierce fire was raging on the first floor back of No. 412.

"Smash in those three doors!" cried Winter to his helpers. "Drag out every Chinaman you meet! Handcuff them in threes and fours! Arrest these fellows standing outside, but keep the two lots separate!"

"Why are we, your friends, to be arrested?" demanded Li Chang's dignified voice.

"I'll soon tell you why, you slim demon!" shouted the chief inspector, roused to anger by the consciousness that he had been duped. "What fiendish trick have you played on those wretches penned up inside there? But I'll soon know."

He turned to the local officer.

"Better march this crowd of Chinamen straight to your station," he said. "I'll follow soon, and lay a charge."

He felt a claw-like hand on his arm, and wild with vexation though he was, forced himself to listen.

"We are ready to go where you wish," said Li Chang calmly. "But spare your own men. They must not enter No. 412. They will be blown to pieces. Stop them! I shall not warn you twice!"

Somehow, Winter was impelled to obey. The center door was already yielding, but he rushed forward and told the party which meant to enter at that point to abandon it, and reinforce their comrades. A number of detectives and police were already inside the dark hallways of Nos. 410 and 414 when the very walls trembled under the shock of a violent explosion in No. 412, which was quickly followed by three others.

A tongue of flame darted instantly to a height of many feet above the topmost storey, showing that the series of explosions had not only destroyed the whole rear section of the house, and thus given the fire fresh fuel and plenty of space but there could be no reasonable doubt that the bombs, if bombs they were, had themselves been filled with some highly inflammable substance. Thenceforth, the police could do nothing beyond keeping at a distance the crowds which soon gathered, and thus clear a space for the operations of the fire brigade.

No. 412 was thoroughly gutted. Not a shred of the building remained except the crumbling walls at front and back. Its neighbors were in little better case, and the firemen devoted their efforts mainly toward keeping the disaster within bounds.

One thing was certain. No human being had escaped from out of that doomed habitation. The fire, too, had gained hold with a phenomenal rapidity which argued the use of petrol, or some kindred agent of irresistible potency when ignited.

Winter and Furneaux, accompanied by the commissioner and Mr. Handyside, walked to the local police station. The American was the only one who spoke.

"Queer ducks, the Chinese!" he said, seemingly musing aloud rather than inviting comment. "They like to settle their own differences. I guess we'd feel pretty much like that if we lived in China."

No one took up the point thus raised. Winter bent a searching, almost sorrowful glance at Furneaux, but the little man's eyes were fixed on the ground, as though he were deep in thought.

In the charge room of the police station the twenty-five Chinamen awaited them. Twenty-five pairs of oblique eyes gleamed at the four when they entered, but not a word was spoken.

Winter, of course, singled out Li Chang for a parley.

"Now," he said, "tell me just what happened after you and these others went into the two houses in Charlotte Street."

The Chinaman faced him imperturbably. His manner was as unemotional and his words as slow and methodical as if he were selling jute in his East End warehouse.

"We asked to be admitted, and after giving the password and showing the sign there was no difficulty," he said. "We were in parties of three. As you probably saw, I headed one, which entered No. 410. My friend, Won Lung Foo, led the other. The ivory skulls made matters simple. We explained to the door-keepers that we had just arrived from China, and brought messages of great urgency. Once inside, we gagged and bound the door-keepers. Then we entered No. 412, where we knew that Wong Li Fu would be smoking opium with the remaining fourteen."

"Were there seventeen in the gang, all told?" broke in Furneaux.

"Seventeen Manchus. The rest are— paid men— of no account."

"Queer," muttered Furneaux, almost to himself. "The story begins and ends with the number 17!"

Again did Winter strive to pierce his colleague with a look from those bulging eyes, but the little man was far too occupied with a singular numerical coincidence to pay any heed to him.

"Well, go on!" he said impatiently, glaring at the Chinaman.

"We went to the big room at the back," continued Li Chang quietly, uttering each word separately, and evidently weighing it in his mind to test its accuracy before use, "and found Wong Li Fu. Him we bound quickly, and very securely. The others we tied in twos and threes. Of course, we brought the two doorkeepers to the same room, so that you should experience no difficulty, but take them all together."

Here Mr. Won Lung Foo broke in. Evidently he could follow English better than speak it.

"Yes," he said. "We wantee you catchee Chineemans all togeller— muchee wantee!"

Then he smiled blandly, and his tongue rolled over his lips as though some fruit or sweetmeat had left a pleasant taste there.

"Then, if your surprise was so successful, what caused the fire?" said Winter, affecting a magnificent disregard of the plain facts.

Li Chang, for once, permitted his immobile features to show some semblance of anxious uncertainty.

"That," he said, "is a mystery which can, perhaps, never be solved. But it saves your Government much trouble."

In those few words he expressed quite clearly the line he adhered to throughout a long cross-examination. Neither Winter nor the commissioner could shake him. The fire was an accident— the outcome of an extraordinary chance. He knew nothing whatsoever of its origin.

After a protracted debate in private between the two heads of the Criminal Investigation Department, the names and addresses of the prisoners were recorded and they were set at liberty.

Before Li Chang went away Furneaux demanded the return of the three ivory skulls, which were promptly handed over.

"One word in your ear," murmured the detective, sotto voce. "Did Wong Li Fu recognize you?"

"Oh, yes," said the Chinaman.

"And you spoke to him?"

"Oh, yes."

The eyes of the two clashed. For once, Furneaux peered deep into the mind of an Oriental, and what he saw there kept him quiet, but he knew, just as surely as if he had been present, exactly what Li Chang said to Wong Li Fu. He delivered a message from two graves in far-off China.

And that is all— or nearly all.

The "Charlotte Street Fire" caused only a slight sensation. It became known that No. 412 was a resort of Chinese opium fiends, and the loss of the den and its frequenters was not treated as a National calamity. The shooting at No. 11 Fortescue Square was regarded much more seriously, and the newspapers were full of it all next day.

Thenceforth, however, interest flagged. Mr. Forbes and his family and servants left London for Scotland, and the Amateur Golf Championship came along, so the escapades of a few Chinese fanatics in London were quickly forgotten.

They were forgotten, that is, by most people; but one man, Frank Theydon, went back to his flat in Innesmore Mansions to plunge into work and strive vainly to obliterate those pages of his memory charged with bitter-sweet day-dreams.

Strive as he would, and did, to bury the past under the duties and cares of the present, the radiant vision of Evelyn Forbes remained ineffaceable and entrancing.

But he was built of tough fiber, and resolutely refused an invitation to visit the Sutherlandshire glen in which Forbes and his daughter were sedulously nursing to health and strength the dear wife and mother whose nervous system had suffered far more than she permitted to become known under the stress and strain of the kidnaping experience.

Even when Evelyn herself wrote, seconding her father's most friendly note, Theydon pleaded the exigencies of his profession and filled a letter with an amusing account of Bates's chagrin because he had failed to "bag a Chinaman on his own account," having actually purchased a pistol and fixed it in position before he and his wife quitted the flat.

Three months passed. On August 9, a broiling morning, Theydon was dejectedly reading of preparations for the "Twelfth," when a telegram reached him. It read:

"Handyside has arrived here in his car. Come for the gathering of the clan. We take no refusal. Forbes."

Theydon traveled north that night. He reached the glen in time for dinner next evening and passed a few delightfully miserable days in Evelyn's company.

At last, feeling that he was losing grip and might act foolishly, he announced to Forbes, one night when a glorious moon was shining, and he knew that Evelyn was awaiting him in the garden, that he must leave for London next day.

"Why?" inquired his host. "Has something unforeseen happened? I thought you meant remaining here till the end of the month at the earliest."

"I'm sorry," said Theydon, chewing a cigar viciously as a means toward maintaining his self-control. "I'm sorry, but I must go."

There was a slight pause. Forbes looked at his young friend with those earnest, deep-seeing eyes of his.

"Is it a personal matter?" he went on.

"Yes."

Again there was a pause. Theydon was well aware that he risked a grave misunderstanding, but that could not be avoided. It might be even better so. And then his blood ran cold, because Forbes was saying:

"Are you leaving us because of anything Evelyn has said or done?"

"No, no!" came the frenzied answer. "Heaven help me, why do you ask that?"

"Heaven helps those who help themselves," said the older man. "That is a trite saying, but it meets the case. I think I diagnose your trouble, my boy. You are in love with Evelyn, and dare not tell her so, because I happen to be a rich man. Really I didn't think you had so poor an opinion of me as to believe that money or rank would count against my daughter's happiness."

He said other things— kindly, wise, appreciative— but Frank Theydon never knew what they were. He managed to stammer out some words of gratitude and then went to find Evelyn.

She had crossed a sloping lawn and was standing by the side of a little stream that gargled and bubbled in joyous career to the nearby loch. She had thrown a white shawl over her head and shoulders, and looked adorably sylphlike as she turned on hearing his footsteps; the moonlight shone on her face and was reflected in her eyes.

"Oh, you're here at last!" she cried gaily. "The next time I ask any cavalier to escort me he will come more quickly, I imagine."

He stood in front of her, and stretched out both hands.

"Evelyn," he said, "here is one cavalier, at any rate, who offers himself as an escort for life."

The merriment died out of her eyes, and the quip on her tongue failed her. Greatly daring, her lover took her in his arms. Through the open windows of the drawing room floated the tender refrain of a ballad. Mrs. Forbes was singing, and sweet words blended with sweet music in the still air.

Then their lips met, and the dark glen became an earthly Paradise.

THE END