The tomb of Ts'in
* * * * *
Here let me say one word about the title which heads this chapter. I
have lumped together many acts of Signor Tillizinni and have described
them as “Just Crimes,” and I think that I have excellent reason for so
describing them.
Tillizinni has always been a law unto himself. He worked on the solid
basis that society was a lamb which must at all costs be protected
from the wolves of the world, and to afford that protection he invoked
the law of that land in which he was residing.
Sometimes the written law did not exactly cover a case, or presented a
loop-hole through which an evil-doer might crawl unscratched.
Tillizinni filled the hole--unlawfully. It was always better for a
criminal to take his chance with the law than to take a chance with
Tillizinni--that I know; that also many villains discovered too late
for the knowledge to be of practical service.
CHAPTER I.
CAPTAIN TED TALHAM.
A man walked carelessly through Hyde Park with the air of one who
had no destination. He was tall and straight, his shoulders were
thrown back, his chin had that upward lift which seems part of the
physiognomy of all who have followed a soldier’s career. His face,
lean and well-featured, was tanned with the tan of strong suns and
keen cold winds, and though the day was chilly and a boisterous breeze
swept across the bare spaces of the Park, he wore neither overcoat nor
muffler. The upturned moustache and the shaggy eyebrows suggested
truculence; the threadbare suit, for all its evidence of pressing and
ironing, suggested that he had found patches of life none too
productive.
A close examination might have revealed little darns at the
extremities of his trousers, for he had a trick of brushing his heels
together as he walked--a trick disastrous to garments already enduring
more than their normal share of wear.
He walked carelessly, swinging his gold-headed malacca
cane--incongruously magnificent--and whistling softly and musically as
he moved.
The Park was almost deserted, for it was dusk, and the weather
conditions were neither ideal nor inviting. Occasionally the gusty
wind bore down a flake or two of snow and the skies overhead were
sullen and grey.
He had reached the Ranger’s House before he examined a cheap metal
watch, which was affixed to his person by no more pretentious guard
than a broad ribbon, bearing a suspicious resemblance to a lady’s
shoe-lace.
The watch had stopped--he arrested his progress to wind it,
deliberately and with great earnestness. This done, he continued his
stroll, bearing down towards the Serpentine.
He stood for a few moments cheerfully contemplating the dreary stretch
of water, and three sad water-fowl, which came paddling toward him in
the hope of sustenance, paddled away again, sadder than ever, for he
offered no greater assistance to life than a cheerful chirrup.
He turned as a sharp footstep came to him from the gravelled path. A
girl was walking quickly toward him from the Kensington end of the
Park. Something in her face attracted his attention--if ever fear was
written in a human countenance it was written in hers. Then, into view
round a clump of bushes, came three men. They were small of stature,
and it needed no second glance to tell him their nationality, for
despite their European dress and their hard Derby hats, they wore
their clothes in the négligé style which the Oriental alone can
assume.
The girl saw the tall man and came towards him.
“I’m so sorry to trouble,” she said breathlessly, “but these men have
been following me for two days--but never so openly----”
She stopped and appeared to be on the verge of tears.
He bowed, a little slyly, and glanced at the three Chinamen, who now
stood a dozen paces away, as though uncertain as to what was the next
best move.
With a jerk of his head he beckoned them, and after a moment’s
consultation they obeyed the gesture.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“No savee,” lisped one of the men. “No savee them pidjin.”
He exchanged a few rapid sentences with his companions and a smile
flickered momentarily at the corner of the tall man’s mouth and
vanished.
“What for you walkee this piecee lady all same time?” he asked.
Again the sotto-voce conference and the leader of the three shook his
head.
“No makee walkee samee time,” he said. “Makee walkee John allee samee,
piecee lady no b’long.”
The tall man nodded. He took from his waistcoat pocket a light blue
porcelain disc and laid it on the palm of his hand and the three
Chinamen walked nearer and examined it. They were puzzled by the
demonstration.
“No savee,” said the spokesman.
Captain Talham replaced the button in his pocket.
“Why do you follow this lady, you dogs?” he asked quickly, and the men
shrank back, for he spoke in the hissing Cantonese dialect.
“Excellent lord,” said the speaker humbly, “we are magnificent
students walking as is our custom in the evening, and we have not the
felicity of having seen this gracious and beautiful lady before.”
“You lie,” said the tall man calmly; “for if that were so, why did you
say, ‘Let us go away until this pig is out of sight, and then we will
follow the woman?’”
The man he addressed was silent.
“Now you shall tell me what you mean,” said Captain Talham and drew
from his pocket the sky-blue button, fingering it thoughtfully.
This time the men saw and understood, and, as if at a signal, they
bowed low, recognising in the inquisitor a mandarin of the Fourth or
Military Class.
“Great mandarin,” said one of the three who had not spoken. “We are
servants of others, and it is said that ‘the wise servant is dumb when
the bamboo falls and dumb till he dies, when he is dumb for ever.’”
The tall man nodded.
“You shall give me your _hong_ that I may know you,” he said.
After a little hesitation, the man who was evidently the leader, took
a little ivory cylinder from his pocket, and unscrewed it so that it
came into two equal portions. The cylinder was no larger than a thick
pencil and less than two inches long. One half was made up of an
inking pad and at the end of the other was a tiny circular stamp.
Captain Talham held out the palm of his hand and the other impressed
upon it the tiny Chinese character which stood for his name. One by
one his fellows followed suit, though they knew that death might be
the result of their disclosure.
The tall man examined the name carefully.
“‘Noble Child,’” he read, “‘Hope of the Spring,’ and ‘Star above the
Yamen.’”
He nodded his head.
“You may go,” said he; and with two little jerky bows the men turned
and walked quickly in the direction from whence they had come.
He had time now to observe the girl, a grave and bewildered spectator
of the scene. She was a little above medium height, and slight. Her
hair was bronze-red and her face singularly beautiful. The skin was
clear and white--so white as almost to suggest fragility. Her eyes
were big and grey, and the two curved eyebrows, so sharp of line as to
recall the pencilled brows which the mid-Victorian poet popularised,
were dark, and contrasted with the glowing glory of the hair above.
The nose was inclined to be retroussé, and the lips were faultless in
shape and a warm red.
She presented the effect which the beautifiers of the world strive to
attain, yet fail, for here nature had, in some mysterious fashion,
blended all colourings in a harmony. She was well dressed, expensively
so. Her simple gown suggested the studied simplicity which has made
one Paris house famous the world over; and there was luxury in the
furs about her throat and in the huge muff which was suspended with
one hand.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she began; and indeed she was in some
embarrassment, for whilst he was obviously a gentleman, he was as
obviously a very poor gentleman.
He smiled and there was good comradeship and the ease which begets
friendship in the brief glimpse of even white teeth.
“In this world,” he said, with no apparent effort at oratory,
“existence is made tolerable by opportunity, and no aspect of
opportunity is so coveted as that which afforded a gentleman to secure
the safety, the peace of mind, or the happiness of a lady.”
It was oratorical all right: there could be no doubt as to that, but
there was no effort, no shaming after effect, no labour of delivery.
He was neither self-conscious nor ponderously pleasant, but the
periods marched forth in an ordered stream of words, punctuated in the
process, so it seemed, by some invisible grammarian.
She flashed a dazzling smile at him which was partly thanks for her
relief, partly amusement at his speech. The smile died as suddenly
because of her amusement and her fear that he would realise why she
smiled. (As to that she need not have worried, for Ted Talham had no
fear of appearing ridiculous.)
“Perhaps you would allow me to see you safely from this place,” he
said courteously. “Civilisation has its dangers--dangers as
multitudinous and as primitive as the wilds may hold for the innocent
and the beautiful.”
She flushed a little, but he was so obviously sincere, and so free
from pretension, that she could not be offended.
“They have been following me for days,” she replied. “At first I
thought it was a coincidence, but now I see that there was no reason
for their dogging my movements.”
He nodded, and they walked on in silence for a while, then:
“Are you associated with China in any way?” he asked suddenly.
She smiled and shook her head.
“I have never been to China,” she said, “and know very little about
the country.”
Again a silence.
“You have friends associated with China?” he persisted, and saw a
little frown of annoyance gather on her forehead.
“My mother--that is to say, my stepmother has,” she said shortly.
He curled his moustache thoughtfully. She noted with an odd feeling in
which pleasure and annoyance were mixed, that he was very much “the
old friend of the family.” It was not exactly what he said, or the
tone he adopted. It was an indefinable something which was neither
patronage nor familiarity. It was Talham’s way, as she was to
discover, to come with pleasant violence into lives and be no more and
no less in place than they who had won their positions in esteem and
confidence through arduous years of service.
“Perhaps your mother’s friends have given you something Chinese which
these men want?” he suggested, and again saw the frown. Somehow he
knew that it did not indicate hostility to, or annoyance with,
himself.
“I have a bangle,” she said; “but I do not wear it.”
She stopped, opened a silver bag she carried on her wrist, and took
out a small jade bracelet. It was set about at intervals by tiny bands
of gold.
“May I see it?”
She passed it to him. They were nearing Marble Arch, and she had
insensibly slackened her pace. Now they both stopped whilst he
examined the ornament. He scrutinised it carefully. Between each band
was an inscription, half obliterated by wear.
“This bangle is two thousand years old,” he said simply, and she
gasped.
“Two thousand!” she repeated incredulously.
“Two thousand,” he repeated. “This is quite valuable.”
“I know,” she said shortly.
He detected something of resentment in her tone.
“What do those characters mean?” she asked. “Is it something I
shouldn’t know?” she asked quickly.
She looked up at his face. There was a dull flush on his face and a
strange light in his eyes.
He fingered the jade bracelet absently.
“There is nothing you should not know,” he said briefly--for him.
“There is much that I have wanted to know for years.”
She was puzzled, and showed it.
“Listen,” he said, and read, turning the bracelet slowly as he read: