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.
