Adventure, December 3, 1920 — page 151: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

,.The Messenger away. After him had followed Hat Shui, one of the Ten, and Death had struck Hat Shui first. And I had given this sodden wreck a taste of opium, enough to bring his poor brain back into coherence, enough to send him out with some vestige of himself at work. He would get more opium now, I knew. There was no lack of it around the city, in one form or another, and we could expect that within a few hours James Death would be equipped to work again. He was in telepathic communication with the — Ten, for he had admitted as much. Whither did this tend, anyway? I might laugh at telepathy, but I am no blind fool. I had either to accept or deny the whole story of the Ten Dromedaries, and I could not deny it. The proofs were too obvious. It was not for nothing that theosophy came out of the Gobi. It was not for nothing that Fandi Singh had warned me. It was not for nothing that Asian legends had now become flesh. And I _ chucked the whole game in one moment’s folly. Well, the thing was done now, and no use crying over it. With an effort I forced myself to open the paper that was folded in my pocket, and I tried to read it. A fresh cigar between my teeth helped a little. - A good deal of time had elapsed, what with one thing and another, and it was now close upon noon. I read the paper idly, trying to keep my mind on the news-items. Presently I came to the shipping-page and folded the paper back with more interest. The shipping- news is the livest bit in the whole sheet, to my notion. The China Maru had pulled out that morning for the Orient, and the column was headed with the usual gossipy account of her departure. I Was scanning it carelessly, when from the list of more notable passengers rose out a name that hit me square between the eyes, like an electric shock. I goggled at the type dazedly through my new specs. No doubt about it at all. Among the pas- sengers who had boarded at the last moment was Sir Fandi Singh, G.C.S.1., C.LE., etc. etc., Rajah of Bhapure, who was engaged upon a world-tour. I lifted blank eyes and stared at nothing. That Sir Fandi had sailed the wording proved beyond question. He had said nothing of it the previous night. What was the answer? It came to me that there were two answers. First, the Rajput I had met was an arrant fraud, which I dismissed as impossible. Second, he and Kilgore and McAuliffe had skipped out in a hurry and left me to pay the shot; which I dismissed as equally impossible. While I was thinking over these things in a dazed manner, I was idly aware that a man had come past me, had paused, and then had dropped down on the bench close at hand. Fora 141 moment I paid no heed, naturally; I was ab- sorbed in the blow that had just landed, trying to figure something definite from ‘the chaos. Slowly I felt that a pair of keen eyes were watching me and a brain was centered upon me. The man sitting on the bench! Was it possible that James Death had come back? I turned my head and looked at the man and then I returned my gaze to the paper in my lap. The man was one of the two detectives from whom I had escaped on the previous night, and he had either recognized me or was on the point of recognition! Vil s I SAT still wisely. A move to get away, and the dick would have grabbed me on suspicion. As yet, he was not certain of his recognition. Was it possible that the old bum I had sent out to my house had given in my description? No; most unlikely. It was much more probably the case that the two detectives who had seen me were now out on a general scour of the city, on the chance of finding me. And this chap had found me, but he wasn’t sure of me at all. At this mo- ment of crisis a tall figure striding along the path drew my glance. Kilgore! I looked up, and my eyes widened for an instant. He caught the warning. How I blessed the man for what he ‘did next! No hesitation, no false moves—but action. He came to a dead stop before me and his hand shot out. When he spoke, his voice held none of the British accent. It was full of de- lighted surprize. “Hello! If it isn’t old John Barsley—here of all places! Why, man, I thought you were plugging away in a Chicago law-office! Why on earth didn’t you let me know you were in town?” “Well, well!’ I came to my feet, standing slouched and round-shouldered, and altering my voice as I seized his hand. “Hello, old man. I only got out of the hospital yesterday.” “Flospital?”” he queried. One would have sworn that the quick sympathy was genuine. “Where?” ‘Here—the Mount Zion,” I responded. “I came out last week on a case to get evidence— got appendicitis instead. They popped me off the train into the hospital. I just got out yesterday, but I’m still pretty weak. See here, I have rooms at the St. Francis. Come along and have a chat. I’ve been sunning myself, and——” “Sure thing!” he exclaimed, eagerly passing his arm through mine. “ Lord, man, you should have had them call me up.” We stepped away from there toward Post Street corner. When we were safely out of ear-shot, I gave Kilgore the reason: COPMMICOOOKS Con