Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China
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.
CHAPTER VIII
Foggy consciousness. A roaring like that of the ocean on a rockbound
coast. He seemed to be floating in a medium of ice. Once his dragging
arm scraped a wet, slippery timber. The journey seemed to be taking
him down--down--into the earth, and slowly he began to rise.
Gradually he became aware of innumerable pinpoints of light in a shield
of purple darkness. These might have been stars, or the lights of a
great city. Next he heard the low gurgle of water, as of a stream
splashing through wilderness.
He felt very faint, but the vapor clouds in his brain were beginning to
clear away. Next he was badly shaken up, yet he was conscious of no
pain. Remorseful eyes stared into his from the face of a candle-white
spectre, and in the background a tall, half-naked giant swayed from
side to side in a pink glow.
Where, then, were Jen and his Chinese?
He vaguely sensed the dawn; it came to him as an old experience, a sort
of groping memory out of a gloriously romantic past. And the swaying
giant he decided in a moment of rare clarity to be a sampan coolie.
The pink glow increased, became pale yellow, while a deep blueness
figured in it. A swollen sun came and paved a bloody path across a
lake of roiled brown, and the water hissed with a white foam.
His jaws were aching; a queer emptiness in his chest caused him long
and perplexing speculation. There were shouting voices aloft, and a
gleaming black wall slowly took form above him. He made out the
pointed heads of rivets.
"Are you awake?" The voice, low and sibilant, emerged from the
candle-white face.
He had been dreaming, too, during this fantastic journey. Once he had
plainly distinguished a field of waving corn. He seemed to be back in
California.
"Eileen," he murmured, surprised at the feebleness of his voice.
"No, no," came the reply. "It is Romola. I--I am leaving you!"
"Ah! Where is Jen?"
Bellowing inquiry came down to them: "Who is that? What do you want?"
The girl called back: "The wireless operator. He is sick. Drop the
ladder. Send down some one to carry him."
The sampan was swinging about, and the coolie was paddling like mad.
"River boat--for Ching-Fu?" Peter gasped.
"No. The _King of Asia_. Peter--can you understand? I am leaving
you! This is good-by! I--I--we will never see each other again. I--I
couldn't turn you over to that man!"
"But the candle----" Peter was miserably confused. "You raised
it--once! I said no!"
Romola seemed to become rather hysterical. "I tricked them, Peter!
Oh, won't you understand? I do love you, Peter! I couldn't give you
to them!"
"No," he muttered; "I don't understand. I--I'm dizzy."
The voice was bellowing again.
"Is that Peter Moore? What's happened to him?"
"He's sick--sick! Send down a watchman. Hurry! This tide is carrying
us away!"
Something bounded into the sampan. A brown coil was flattened against
the gleaming black wall.
But Peter could not understand. He was back again in the cellar under
Romola's house, mumbling insanely about a candle-light. Perhaps he
dreamed that hot lips were pressed lingeringly against his own. Over
and over he heard a fading voice; it was saying: "Good-by!--_Ch'ing_!"
The glaring sun was in his face. He shut his eyes. The lips seemed to
be torn from his in a cry of anguish. Strong arms encircled his waist,
and he was no longer aware of the motion of the sampan.
It was late in the day when Peter opened his eyes again, closed them,
and stared at the mattress and springs of a bunk over his head. He was
lying on his back in his stateroom. Smoky afternoon sunlight,
reflected from a shimmering surface, sparkled and bubbled against the
white enameled wall.
His head was aching a little, and there were numerous jumping pains in
various parts of his body. He had been dreaming. All of these things
that had come and gone with the fading of the night were figments of a
slumbering brain. The last portion of the dream which he could
visualize distinctly was his act of arising from a wireless machine in
a house that had gone mad, to confront a tall Chinese who wore a
ridiculously stubby pigtail, like that of Jen, the deck-steward.
He sat up, governed by a sudden worry. Where were the Whipple girls