A road as white and straight as a silver bar led directly between the black, jutting shoulders of the hills to the gates of Len Yang.
Peter, with his heart beating a wild symphony of anticipation and fear, drew rein.
The small mule panted from the long desperate climb, his plump sides filling and caving as he drank in the sharp evening air.
Close behind the city's faded green walls towered the mountain ranges of Tibet, cold, gloomy, and vague in the purple mystery of their uncertain distances. They were like chained giants, brooding over the wrongs committed in the City of Stolen Lives, sullen in their mighty helplessness.
In the rays of the swollen sun the close-packed hovels enclosed within the moss-covered walls seemed to rest upon a blurring background of vermilion earth.
As Peter clicked his tongue and urged the tired little animal down the slope, he recalled the fragment of the description that had been given him of this place. Hideous people, with staring eyes, dripping the blood-red slime of the cinnabar-mines--leprosy, filth, vermin--
His palace! It stood out above the carmine ruck like a cube of purest ivory in a bleeding wound. Its marble outrivaled the whiteness of the Taj Mahal. It was a thing of snow-white beauty, like a dove poising for flight above a gory battlefield. And it was crowned by a dome of lapis lazuli, bluer than the South Pacific under a melting sun! But its base, Peter knew, was stained red, a blood-red which had seeped up and up from the carmine clay.
The gate to the city was down, and by the grace of his blue-satin robe Peter was permitted to enter.
And instantly he was obsessed with the flaming color of that man's unappeased passion. Red--red! The hovels were spattered with the red clay. The man, the skinny, wretched creature who begged for a moment of his gracious mercy at the gate, dripped in ruby filth. The mule sank and wallowed in vermilion mire.
Scrawny, undernourished children, naked, or in rags that afforded little more protection than nakedness, thrust their starved, red-smeared faces up at him, and gibed and howled.
And above all this arose the white majesty of his palace--the throne of the Gray Dragon!
Peter urged the mule up the scarlet alley to a clearing in which he found coolies by the thousands, trudging moodily from a central orifice that continued to disgorge more and more of them. The dreadful, reeking creatures blinked and gaped as if stupefied by the rosy light of the dying day.
Some carried lanterns of modern pattern; others bore picks and shovels and iron buckets, and they seemed to pass on interminably, to be engulfed in the lanes which ran in all directions from the clearing.
It was as though the earth were vomiting up the vilest of its creatures. And in the same light it was consuming others of equal vileness. Down into the red maws of the shaft an endless chain of men and women and children were descending.
Quite suddenly the light gave way, and Peter was aware that the night of the mountains was creeping out over the city, blotting out its disfigurements, replacing the hideous redness with a velvety black.
At the shaft's entrance a sharp spot of dazzling light sprang into being. It was an electric arc light! Somehow this apparition struck through the horror that saturated him, and he sighed as if his mind had relinquished a clinging nightmare.
Professionally now he gave this section of Len Yang another scrutiny. Thick cables sagged between stumpy poles like clusters of black snakes, all converging at the mine's entrance. His acute ears were registering a dull hum, indicating the imminence of high-geared machinery or of dynamos.
At the further side of the red shaft, now crusted with the night's shades, and garishly illuminated by the diamond whiteness of the frosty arc, he made out a deep, wide ditch, where flowed slowly a ruddy current, supplied from a short fat pipe.
Peter believed that electric pumps sucked out the red seepage waters from the mine and lifted them to the bloody ditch.
On impulse he lifted his eyes to the darkening heavens, and he knew now that the threads of this, his greatest adventure, were being drawn to a meeting point; for he detected in the sun's last refracted rays the bronze glint of aerial wires! What lay at the base of the antenna he could guess accurately. He hastened to the base of the nearest aerial mast--a pole reaching like a dark needle into the sky--and found there a low, dark building of varnished pine with a small door of eroded, green brass.
The rain-washed pine, the complete absence of windows, and the austerity of the massive brass door contributed to a personality of dignified and pessimistic aloofness. The building occupied a place to itself, as if its reserve were not to be tampered with, as if its dark and sullen mystery were not meant for the prying eyes of passing strangers.
Peter knocked brazenly upon the door, and it clanked shallowly, giving forth no inward echo. He waited expectantly.
It yawned open to the accompaniment of grumbled curses in a distinctly tenor whine.
A man with a white, shocked face stared at him from the threshold. The countenance was long, tapering, and it ended nowhere. Dull, mocking eyes with a burned-out look in them stared unblinkingly into Peter's face.
Peter could have shouted in recognition of the weak face, but he compressed his lips and bowed respectfully instead.
"What the hell do you want?" growled the man on the threshold.
"May Buddha bring the thousandth blessing to the soul of your virtuous mother," said Peter in solemn, benedictive tones. "It is my pleasure to desire entrance."
"Speak English, eh?" shrilled the man. "Dammit! Then come in!" And to this invitation he added blasphemy in Peter's own tongue that made his heart turn sour. It was the useless, raving blasphemy of a weakling. It was the man as Peter had known him of old. But a little worse. He still wore what remained of his Marconi uniform, tattered, grease-stained coat and trousers, with the ragged white and blue emblems of the steamship line by which he had been employed before he had disappeared. His bony hands trembled incessantly, and his face had the chalky pastiness native to the opium eater.
Peter, reflecting upon the honor which that uniform had always meant for him, felt like knocking this chattering, wild-eyed creature down and trampling upon him. But he bowed respectfully. The door clanged behind him, and his eye absorbed in an instant the details of the ponderously high-powered electrical apparatus.
"Speak God's language, eh?" whined the man. "Sit down and don't stare so. Sit down. Sit down."
"A mandarin never seats himself, O high one, until thrice invited."
"Thrice, four, five times, I tell you to sit down!" he babbled. "Men, even rat-eaters like you, who speak my language, are too rare to let go by. Mandarin?"
He stepped back and eyed his guest with stupid humor.
"I say, men who speak my language are rare. Nights I listen to fools on this machine, and tell them what I please. What is the news from outside? What is the news from home?"
"From where?"
"From America!" He stumbled over the words, and took in his breath with a long, trembling hiss between his yellow teeth.
"It is many years since I visited that strange land, O great one! It is many, many years, indeed, since I studied for the craft which you now perform so honorably."
"You--what was that?"
"I, too, studied to your honorable craft, my son. But it was denied me. Buddha decreed that I should preach his doctrines. It is my life to bring a little hope, a little gladness into the hearts----"
"You stand there and tell me that you know the code?" cried the white-faced man shrilly.
"Such was my good fortune," Peter replied gravely.
"Well, I believe you're a dam' liar, you Chink!" scoffed the other, who was swinging in nervousness or irritation from side to side.
Peter shrugged his shoulders, and permitted his gaze to fondle the monstrous transmission coil.
"I'll show you!" railed the man. "I'll give you a free chance, I will! Now, listen to me. Tell me what I say." He pursed his lips and whistled a series of staccato dots and dashes.
"What you have said," replied Peter in a deep voice, "is true, O high one!"
"What did I say?"
"You said: 'China, it is the hell-hole of the world!' Do I speak the truth?"
Peter thought that this crazy man--whose name had formerly been Harrison--was preparing to leap at him. But Harrison only sprang to his side and seized his hands in a clammy, excited grip. Tears of an exultant origin glittered in the man's eyes, now luminous.
"You stay with me, do you hear?" he babbled. "You stay here. I'll make it worth your while! I'll see you have money. I'll see----"
"But I have no need of money, O high one!" interrupted Peter in a somewhat resentful tone, striving to mask his eagerness.
"You stay!" cried Harrison.
"Lotus eater!" Peter said, knowing his ground perfectly.
"What if I am?" demanded Harrison defiantly. "So are you! So are we all! So is everybody who lives in this rotten country!"
"To the sick, all are sick," Peter quoted sorrowfully.
"Rot! As long as I must have opium, there's nothing more to be said. Now, I pry my eyes open with matches to stay awake. With you here----"
His thin voice trailed off. He had confessed what Peter already knew. It was the blurted confession, and the blurted plea, of a mind that was half consumed by drugs. A diseased mind which spoke the naked truth, which caught at no deception, which was tormented by its own gnawings and cravings to such an extent that it had lost the function of suspecting. Suspicion of a low, distorted sort might come later; but at its present ebb this mind was far too greedy to gain its own small ends to grope beyond.
The lids of Harrison's smoldering eyes drew down, and they were blue, a sickly, pallid blue. With their descent his face became a death-mask. But Peter knew from many an observation that such signs were deceptive; knew that opium was a powerful and sustaining drug; knew that Harrison, while weak and stupid and raving, was very much alive!
"There is little work to be done," went on the thin voice. "Only at night. Say you will stay with me!" he pleaded.
Peter permitted himself to frown, as if he had reached a negative decision. Harrison, torn by desire, flung himself down on his ragged knees, and sobbed on Peter's hand. Peter pushed him away loathfully.
"What is my task?"
Harrison sank back on his heels, oblivious of the wet streak which ran down from his eyes on either side of his thin, sharp nose, and delved nervously into his pocket. He withdrew a lump of black gum, about the size of a black walnut, broke off a fragment with his finger-nails, and masticated it slowly. He smirked sagely.
"He won't care. Why should he care?"
"Who, my son?"
"That man--that man who owns Len Yang, and me, and these rat-eaters. All he wants is results."
"Ah, yes. He owns other mines?"
"What does he care about the mines? Of course he directs the other mines by wireless. He owns a sixth of the world. He does. He is rich. Rich! You and I are poor fools. He gives me opium"--Harrison glared and gulped--"and he does not ask questions."
"Wise men learn without asking questions, my son," said Peter gravely.
"Certainly they do! He knows everything, and he never asks a question. Not a one! He answers them, he does!"
"You have asked him questions?"
"I? Humph! What an innocent fool you are, in spite of that gold on your collar! Have I seen him to ask questions?"
"That is what I meant."
"Not I. He is no fool. You may be the Gray Dragon for all of me. No one in Len Yang sees him. No one dares! It is death to see that man! Didn't I try? But only once!"
"You did try?"
"That was enough. I got as far as the first step of the ivory palace. Some one clubbed me! I was sick. I thought I was going to die! There is a scar on my neck. It never seems to heal!"
The senile whine trailed off into a thin, abusive whimper. His bony jaws moved slowly and meditatively. He went on:
"He is crazy, too. Women! Beautiful women for the mines! Men--men--men everywhere know the price he will pay. In pure silver!"
"He pays well, my son?"
"A thousand taels, if he is satisfied. That is where this hole got its name. You know the name--the City of Stolen Lives? It should be the City of Lost Hope. For none ever leave. The mines swallow them up. What becomes of them?"
"Ah! What does become of the stolen lives?"
The sunken eyes stared playfully at him. "What is a thousand taels to him? He is rich, I tell you! They say his cellar is filled with gold--pure gold; that his rooms and halls run and drip with gold, just as his rat-eaters run and drip with the cinnabar poison. And the wireless--he has stations, and this is the best. Mine is the best. I see to that, let me tell you!"
"To be sure!"
"These hunters, these men who know his price for beautiful women--he will have none other--and who are paid a thousand taels----"
"Where did you say these stations are?"
"In all parts. There is a station in Afghanistan, between Kabul and Jalalabad, and one in Bengal, in the Khasi Hills, and another in northern Szechwan Province, and one in Siam, on the Bang Pakong River----"
"A station on the Bang Pakong?"
"Yes, I tell you. All over. These hunters find a woman, a lovely girl; and they must describe their prize in a few words. He is sly! The fewer the better. If the words appeal to him, he has me tell them to come. Lucky devils! A thousand taels to the lucky devils! Some day I myself may become a hunter."
"It is tempting," agreed Peter. "But why does he want beautiful young girls for his mine, my son?"
Harrison ignored the question.
"To-night I will listen. You can watch me. Then you can see how simple it is. It is time."
Peter was aware that the door had opened and closed behind his back, and now he heard the faint scraping of a sandaled foot, heavy with the red slime. A Chinese, in the severe black of an attendant, stood looking down at him distrustfully. His eyebrows were shaved, and a mustache drooped down to his sharp, flat chin like sea-weed.
He asked Harrison a sharp question in a dialect that smacked of the guttural Tibetan.
"He wants to know where you came from," translated Harrison irritably.
"From Wenchow. A mandarin. He should know."
The man in severe black bowed respectfully, and Peter looked at him frigidly.
Harrison slipped the Murdock receivers over his ears, and his voice went on in a weak, garrulous and meaningless whimper.
"Static--static--static. It is horrible to-night. I cannot hear these fellows. Ah! Afghanistan has nothing, nor Bengal. Hey, you fool, I cannot hear this fellow in Szechwan. He has a message. Yes, you, I cannot hear him. Not a word! He is faint, like a bad whisper. They will beat me again if I cannot hear!"
He tried again, forcing the rubber knobs against his ears until they seemed to sink into his head.
"Have you good hearing?"
"I will try," said Peter.
"Then sit here. You must hear him, or we will both be beaten. This fellow goes straight to him."
Peter slipped into the vacated chair and strapped down the receivers. A long, faint whisper, as indistinguishable as the lisp of leaves on a distant hill, trickled into his ears. Ordinarily he would have given up such a station in disgust, and waited for the air to clear. Now he wanted to establish his ability, to demonstrate the acuteness of hearing for which he was famous.
Behind him the black-garbed attendant muttered, and Peter scowled at him to be silent.
With deftness that might have surprised that wretch, Harrison, had his wits been more alert, he raised and closed switches for transmission, and rapped out in a quick, professional "O.K."
He cocked his head to one side, as he always did when listening to far-away signals, and a pad and pencil were slid under his hand.
The world and its noises and the tense, eager figures behind him, retreated and became nothing. In all eternity there was but one thing--the message from the whispering Szechwan station.
His pencil trailed lightly, without a sound, across the smooth paper.
A message for L. Y. An American girl. Brown hair. Eyes with the moon's mystery. Lips like a new-born rose. Enchantingly young.
The blood boiled into Peter's brain, and the pencil slipped from fingers that were like ice. There was only one girl in the world who answered to that description. Eileen Lorimer! She had been captured again, and brought back to China!
He grabbed for the paper. It was gone. Gone, too, was the black-garbed attendant, hastening to his master.
Harrison was pawing his shoulder with a skinny, white hand, and making noises in his throat.
"You lucky fool! He'll give you cumshaw. God, you have sharp ears! Only one man I ever knew had such sharp ears. He always gives cumshaw. Na-mien-pu-liao-pa! You must divide with me. That is only fair. But--what difference? Here you can enter, but you can never leave. You have no use for silver. I have."
The face of Eileen Lorimer swam out of Peter's crazed mind. Miss Vost, that lovely innocent-eyed creature, fitted the same description!
Peter stared stupidly at the massive transmission key, and disdained a reply. Miss Vost--and the red mines! He shuddered.
Harrison was whining again at his ear. "He says yes. Yes! Tell that fellow yes, and be quick. The Gray Dragon will give him an extra thousand taels for haste. Oh, the lucky fool! Two thousand taels! Tell him, or shall I?"
How could Peter say no? The ghastly white face was staring at him suspiciously now.
While he hesitated Harrison pushed him aside, and his fingers flew up and down on the black rubber knob. "Yes--yes--yes. Send her in a hurry. A thousand taels bonus. The lucky devil!"
Out of Peter's anguish came but one solution, and that vague and indecisive. He must wait and watch for Miss Vost, and take what drastic measures he could devise to recapture her when the time came.
The pallid lips trembled again at his ear. "Here! You must divide with me. A bag of silver. Yin! A bag of it! Listen to the chink of it!"
Peter seized the yellow pouch and thrust it under his silken blouse. He was beginning to realize that he had been exceptionally lucky in catching the signals of the Szechwan station. He was vastly more important now than this wretch who plucked at his arm.
"Give me my half!" whined Harrison.
Peter doubled his fist.
"Give me my half!" Harrison clung to his arm and shook him irritably.
