III
IN THE FACE OF STRANGE DANGERS
“When the method of attack is not fully understood, go slowly and warily.”
—Kenyon’s “Art of the Sabre.”
IN spite of Kenyon’s nonchalant ease and smiling face, his muscles were flexed for a swift rush. But this never came; both men arose and silently saluted him; then they resumed their seats once more.
The puzzled expression that had come into Kenyon’s eyes in the cab, returned. But in that way only did he show it. His manner was as easy as before; he leaned negligently against a heavy table and smiled engagingly. All the time, however, his keen glances and rapid brain were gauging the quality of the men with whom he had to deal.
With mild surprise he noted that the elder of the two was a Chinaman, a tall, emaciated man, with sunken, slanting eyes, hollowed temples, and shaven crown. The straight, thin, bloodless lips were drawn back, showing the teeth; the wasted hands rested, claw-like, upon the arms of his chair. As Kenyon looked, the man coughed hollowly and raised a handkerchief furtively to his lips.
“Phthisis,” was Kenyon’s mental judgment. “And about the most advanced stage I should say.”
The second was a huge, boyish, fresh-looking youth, with an eager, smiling look, and attired much after the fashion affected by collegians of the younger sort.
“If he is a college man, he’s a guard on the eleven, throws weights or does some other equally hefty stunt,” Kenyon decided. “He’s put together like a horse.”
For a moment the two retained their silence; they bent forward in their chairs and carefully examined the graceful, immaculate figure by the table. Then the Chinaman spoke.
“Be seated, Mr. Kenyon,” he said in a husky, unpleasant voice. “Do not disturb yourself in the least. We are quite delighted to see you.”
Once more Kenyon bowed, laughingly.
“If it is all the same to you, I prefer to stand,” said he. “And I think, gentlemen, you may trust me to keep myself in a fairly calm state of mind. As to your pleasure at sight of me,” and his eyes twinkled humorously, “permit me to say that you did not appear in any great hurry to display it.”
The Celestial’s lips drew back from his prominent teeth in what was meant for a smile; Kenyon, in spite of his self-control, could not help a slight shudder. The almost fleshless face, the shaven crown, and sunken eyes made the man look like a death’s-head.
“I trust you will pardon our silence,” said he, in slowly spoken, perfect English.
“Pray don’t speak of it,” returned Kenyon. “Strangers sometimes find it extremely difficult to pick material for conversation; and I never take offence at any man’s shrinking from the conversational idiocies of such occasions.”
Again the yellow man smiled his ghastly smile; but his companion laughed outright.
“I say,” said he, in the big-boyish way that his looks had made Kenyon expect, “you’ve got it right, Kenyon. I hate all that sort of rot myself. When I talk, I like it straight from the shoulder—I want it to mean something, you know.”
There was a hearty, engaging sort of candor in his voice and manner common to the big-bodied, out-door man. But still there was an undercurrent of some inexplicable sort that focussed Kenyon’s attention instantly upon him. The frank smile was there, the genial look that one would expect was in his eye; the eager, boyish spirit seemed to fill him.
“But he’s off-shade somewhere,” Kenyon told himself. “I don’t know just where; but if I talk to him long enough I’ll get him located and classed.”
The Chinaman leaned forward, motioning his companion to be silent. Instantly the young man seemed to withdraw into himself.
“The yellow one is the intellect,” was Kenyon’s thought as his alert glance took this in. “And I shouldn’t wonder but what we were now coming to business.”
The eyes of the Chinaman fixed themselves upon Kenyon’s face. Sunken and slanted as they were usually, they presented a strange, uncanny appearance; but now their lids were puckered over them; and through each slit a burning, rat-like eye looked forth.
“In this Western world, Mr. Kenyon,” said he, “it is the conventional thing for strangers, I understand, to discuss the weather.” He bent forward and the burning slits of eyes seemed to be boring the young man through. “This being so,” he continued, “might I ask what sort of weather you were having in Butte when you left there?”
The question was quietly asked; but Kenyon instantly felt the weight of their intense expectancy as though by telepathic messages. Both the faces before him were now as expressionless as plaster masks; with semi-fascinated eyes he watched the twitching of one claw-like, yellow hand as it lay upon the Chinaman’s knee. Nevertheless he did not lose his poise for a moment.
“It was raining heavily when I left Butte,” said he.
Instantly the claw glided into the breast of the yellow man’s coat; the boyish giant half arose from his chair.
“But,” continued Kenyon, with never a trace of haste in his voice, “that was several years ago, and I’m sure is of no interest now.”
Slowly the claw crept into view once more and lay empty upon the arm of the chair; slowly the big form of the younger man sank back. Everything was as still as death. The single gas jet threw quavering shadows about the three. Kenyon still leaned easily against the table, watching the others with speculative eye.
Quick footsteps were heard to ring upon the flags without. The room was at the front of the house and street noises could be plainly heard. The footsteps suddenly paused, then ascended the stone steps. The hand of the Chinaman instantly went up; a glance of intelligence passed between him and his companion; then both turned and nodded apologetically to Kenyon.
“That,” and the Celestial jerked a thumb toward the street, “is the person from Butte. Listen!”
As he spoke there came a swift rush of feet from without, a sharp, quick cry and the dull beat of blows. Kenyon sprang toward the door leading to the hall; but he found the hands of the young white man against his chest, and saw the fresh, good-humored face looking into his own.
“Steady, old fellow. Wait for the word.” The speaker forced a smile. “There is no cause for you to go off like this. Take my word for it, whatever little matter is going on outside there is for the good of everybody concerned.”
While he spoke the sounds of the struggle had ceased; the patter of softly running feet was heard, then all was still again.
Kenyon stepped back and carefully arranged his tie and the hang of his coat; for the young giant had stopped him rather suddenly.
“Whoever you are,” remarked he, gently, as he fastidiously smoothed off the traces of their contact, “you appear to have a way with you.” Then with a sudden sharpness in his voice and an altered look in his face, he went on, addressing both. “It seems to be taken for granted that I am concerned in what is happening here. Now, let me disabuse your minds upon that point. I’ve seen my share of the broken points of life and have known what it is to fight hard for small profits; but my interests have never yet reached the stage where I deemed it expedient to garrotte a man in the darkness to serve them. Don’t forget that fact, as we go along!”
It was the Chinaman who replied.
“We will try not to,” said he in his husky tones. He coughed hollowly and the handkerchief went to his lips; that he had difficulty in breathing was evident, but for all that, a look of marked satisfaction was upon his face. “We have made no mistake, my son,” addressing his companion, “in selecting Mr. Kenyon, it seems. He pleases me. It is not often that one meets with a person quite so much to one’s liking.”
The other man smiled cheerfully. “I never saw the time, Hong, that you were not right,” said he. “It takes you to pick the winners.” There was unquestioned admiration in his eyes as he turned to Kenyon. “You are the man for the job. You seem to have a real talent for this sort of thing. Good stuff! I like your work.”
“Thank you,” returned Kenyon, dryly. “You are very good.”
“Now that I’m sure it’s you, I’m glad to know you,” said the big young man. He shook hands with Kenyon in a hearty, whole-souled fashion; there was honesty and good intent in every line of his face. Kenyon’s searching eyes were bent upon him; but if ever there was candid, wide-open geniality it was before him.
“This fellow,” he mentally admitted, “has me winging. He seems right, but—”
The Chinaman began to speak.
“It is well, I think,” said he to Kenyon, “for you and Forrester to become well acquainted.”
“Forrester?” Kenyon turned a questioning look upon him.
“Of course—Forrester,” said the young giant, rather impatiently. He looked the ex-lieutenant of Nunez over very carefully for a moment and then added: “Do you know, I think that if you have any fault at all, Kenyon, it is that you play the game too strong. I am Forrester. You must have known that.”
Kenyon gestured gracefully.
“My dear sir,” said he, “there are a great many things that I should know; nevertheless a dense darkness seems to hedge them around. If any light is to be thrown upon this matter, I beg of you to turn it on now.”
“You are right,” said the Chinaman, approvingly. “There is nothing in the world like being positive—of knowing just with what you have to do. But as things rest we can tell you nothing. We know nothing, save that I am Hong Yo, and that this,” pointing to the other, “is Forrester.”
Kenyon acknowledged this latter information easily.
“I am delighted,” he said, “and I have no doubt but what our acquaintance will lead to some small matter of considerable interest.”
“Oh,” said the Chinaman, with another of his hideous smiles, “it is sure to do that. But we must be patient; we must wait. The next step is yours to take; whatever the result, it will be of your making.”
He coughed once more, with ominous hollowness; then he seemed to settle down into his chair and fall into a deep train of thought. Kenyon felt Forrester quietly touch his sleeve and turning found the young man at his elbow.
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Forrester, nodding toward Hong Yo. “He gets into those moods now and then. And, do you know, it doesn’t pay to break into them. He has rather a nasty temper; and then, too he can think up the damnedest things you ever heard of when he gets deep into it, that way. You see,” guardedly, “he doesn’t stand very well, and that sort of tells on him. He’s the kind of a chap that likes to run things all by himself. He didn’t care about letting me into this, at all. But when it came to you, he acted real nasty.” There was speculation in his eye as he regarded the brooding Hong Yo, and he continued: “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he hasn’t been a sudden sort of a customer in his day. He certainly has the look of it.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Kenyon. “Then,” without a change of tone, “you have not known him long?”
“Not very,” with noticeable briefness.
There came a rustling of a gown outside the door; then it opened and the girl re-entered. For a moment as she looked at the three occupants of the room there was appeal in her eyes, a piteousness that made Kenyon’s heart melt in his breast. And there were red rims about the beautiful eyes.
“She’s been crying,” thought the young man, and a fury seized him that anyone or anything should cause her to do so.
“Mr. Forrester,” she said, “will you come with me?”
Her voice was sweet and soft with that tremulous gentleness that so stirs a man. But when she turned to Kenyon all this vanished; the old hostile look returned.
“And you, also, sir,” she said.