The valley of eyes unseen
'He may have done so. I noticed none near the skeleton, but then I was
not looking for anything of the sort, and may easily have missed them.
He may have dropped them during his retreat through the mountains.
Likeliest of all, he may have been too terrified at the sight of the
"devils of ghostly face" to trouble about collecting gems.'
I sat drumming my fingers on the table. It was a wild and fantastic
enough story in all conscience, and they would be bold gamblers who
staked much on its truth.
'Well, what do you say?' I heard Philipson's crisp, keen voice.
'I see pretty enormous obstacles. In the first place, supposing you
could find the place where the legend was written--'
'Never fear. I nearly lost my life on that trip, but I kept my head
through it all. I made a large-scale plan of the neighbourhood, and
mapped every mile of my journey down country. I will guarantee to take
you to that heap of slates direct--or as straight as the mountains
permit.'
'How is it, then, if the place is so easy to find, it's never been
found and made known? I've trekked with the Tibetan caravans before
now, many times, but never have I heard mention of such a monument.'
'You hardly would. My _obo_ is right off the track that caravans or
even explorers would be likely to follow. Even if the heap of slates
were found, that would not help in the least. I was determined that
if there were any great discovery to be made beyond those mountains
it should be mine only. As soon as I had copied the inscription I
erased it. As it stands at this moment, that cairn would be taken to be
just the common type of Tibetan _obo_ with its legend obliterated by
weather.'
'You seem to meet every objection, Philipson,' I said. 'But frankly, as
man to man, do you really expect to find this supposed valley with its
white race?'
'Why not? If that poor devil of a priest could find it, travelling
alone and on foot, without equipment and without food, it will say
little for my capabilities as an explorer if I cannot do as much with
all the outfit for a cross-mountain expedition. Whatever happens,
I shall never rest now till I have settled the question one way or
the other, or left my bones up on those heights in the attempt. Why,
Mirlees, an adventure like this is worth risking a dozen lives for. It
will be the most wonderful exploration in history.'
Saunders Philipson's manner was always openness itself, yet had he
deliberately sought around for the most cunning way to win me over
he couldn't have brought forward a stronger argument than this. The
lure of the thing was irresistible. Already I saw myself bringing
back the secret of this hidden land to the outer world, and heard
my name ringing round the planet, and saw the faces of some of my
former critics among the orientalists. These folk had set me down as a
reckless liar in the past. Now they would have something really to get
excited about.
'I'm in it with you Philipson,' I said at last, 'in it to the death.
But there's the rub--the possible death. Nasty accidents have been
known to happen up on that roof of the world. I haven't money enough to
pay the lawyer's fee for writing a will, but there are some manuscripts
among my baggage that I don't want lost, still less stolen and printed
under another man's name. I'd give a good deal to return to Shanghai
before we start.'
Philipson shook his head gravely. 'Most perilous,' he said. 'The gang
we escaped last night will know at any moment now that the down coast
scent was false--if indeed they have not learned as much already. They
will concentrate on Shanghai till a fresh trail is picked up. For
either of us to show his face in the city at present would be suicidal.'
'By the way, Philipson, who _are_ the gang?'
'H'm. Of course. I did not tell you. They are members, Mirlees, of
a large and powerful secret society, whose headquarters are at the
monastery of Shigatse, in Tibet. During my novitiate I gathered that
there was something of the sort in existence, though no mention of
it was ever made to me. I fancy it started there centuries ago, as a
purely religious organisation, but that it has since extended over
China and taken on a character the very reverse of religious, though
it still preserves the ancient hidden form of language which was used
by Sbrang Chikya on the _obo_. I have been able to discover one or two
things about the society since my return to Shanghai, but I little
dreamed its agents were actually in the city and had marked me down for
destruction.'
'You're sure of that?'
'I recognised one of my former fellow monks during our encounter in the
opium hell.'
'What were you after there?'
'Facts. Since I got the translation of the legend I have been
constantly on the look out for confirmation of it, however slight. It
seemed impossible that a race like this people of the legend should
lie hidden in their valley through the centuries without at least some
vague tradition of their existence developing in neighbouring lands. I
had heard of no such tradition, but other men might. I made veiled but
thorough inquiries among natives who have used the caravan routes of
the interior a good deal, and at last came upon a man who professed to
know something about it. We were to meet in that den, then go on to his
house. I now see the whole scheme. The monks at Shigatse had divined
from certain questions I put to them that I was on the track of some
land of gems in the interior, which had originally been discovered by
one of their own fraternity. They wanted to filch my information and
revenge themselves upon me for entering their monastery and penetrating
some of _their_ secrets under false pretences. The fellow who was
to give me information was put up as a trap, to get hold of this
inscription and these--'
Philipson threw himself back in his chair, staring at the wall above
my head. He then began feverishly turning over the papers he had drawn
from his wallet.
'What's wrong?' I cried.
Philipson glared at me in a sort of suppressed fury. 'This is wrong,
Mirlees,' he muttered between his teeth. 'The man you are partnering
yourself with is about the clumsiest fool in Asia. When I came away
from my house I thought I had all my papers with me. But I had not. One
packet is missing--the one containing half the maps of my journey down
country.'
'That's essential, of course?'
'Vital. It's this end of the trail I've left behind. The other I might
dispense with--with extreme good luck I might find the _obo_ from
memory if I had a correct start. As it is, I would not guarantee to get
within a hundred miles of it.'
'H'm. Perhaps you'd better let me risk Shanghai after all, Philipson,'
I said. 'I could get the maps as well as settle my own affairs.'
He remained staring at the wall. 'Plucky of you to volunteer, Mirlees,'
he said at last, 'but if either of us is to go, I might every bit as
well go myself. Both of us would stand an excellent chance of being
murdered.'
At this moment there was a violent commotion outside our room.
Philipson shot the papers back into his pocket and sprang up, covering
the door with a revolver, as I could see, through the silk of his
jacket. We heard scuffling footsteps and the voice of the Chinese
landlady raised in strident wrath. Philipson tiptoed to the door,
opened it quietly, and peered out, while I followed him, peeping over
his shoulder. With the woman was a boy of about twenty-one, in Europe
clothes and, apparently, a genial phase of alcohol, bowing and scraping
to her like a dancing master and talking a sort of high-falutin jargon
of which she couldn't possibly have understood two words.
When he had satisfied himself there was nobody else, Philipson stepped
out on to the broad landing, with me at his heels. The newcomer turned
and faced us. He was short, well-knit, clad in smartly cut pongees that
had suffered a little, it seemed, from his adventures of the evening;
and as he bowed to us--with just a suspicion of a lurch--his regular,
freckled features broke into a smile that disclosed two rows of very
small white teeth. Whatever the fellow was, he was no hobo--that much I
saw at once.
'Good evening, gentlemen,' he said. 'Would you believe it, this
flinty-hearted Hebe actually denies me access to my own rooms!'
The proprietress likewise turned to us, with shrill protest. 'Dis man
he no hab pay money!' she screamed. 'No more long time can stay in dis
house.'
The youth threw up his hands disdainfully, as if surprised. 'How
paltry!' he exclaimed. 'To break the harmony of our relations over a
few wretched dollars which I do not for the moment happen to possess!'
Philipson had been taking stock of the youth very comprehensively,
though he didn't appear to be aware of it.
'What's your name?' demanded my friend.
The newcomer returned Philipson's keen look with equal directness,
raising his eyebrows slightly. 'Abruptly asked, if I may say so,' he
remarked. 'My name is Stephen Poyning, at your service'--and with this
he fetched a rather grandiose sweep of the topee he was holding in his
hand.
'How much do you owe her?'
Poyning faced the landlady. 'Prithee, woman,' he said, 'state the
extent of indebtedness.'
'Dis man he no hab pay fifty dollar!' she returned.
Philipson pulled a wad of notes from his pocket, counted out five of
ten dollars each, pushed them into the landlady's hand and took her
by the shoulders and directed her downstairs with a good deal more
determination than gallantry.
'Now, sir,' he said, turning to Poyning, 'having relieved your
immediate needs, I venture to inquire what is your business here.'
Poyning fanned himself elegantly with his hat. 'There lies the whole
pathos of the situation,' he said. 'I have none. My occupation up to
this time has been merely the search for business, the quest of some
small nook in the great world machine of labour. I may say that the
quest has been diligently prosecuted, but utterly barren of result.'
'H'm. You cannot get a job.'
'The merchant princes of this land, sir, have been but very faintly
impressed with the desirability of enlisting my services. In
Shanghai--would you credit it?--I could scarce get them to believe I
was not in jest; and here, too, beyond the offer of a post to pack
frozen game in a warehouse--side by side, I believe, with native
operatives--nothing whatever has presented itself. And I, gentlemen,
took a first at the University of Oxford.'
'Come into this room,' said Philipson, leading the way.
Poyning followed. On seeing the quartette of bottles on the table his
eyes lit up. 'One who understands the art of living, I observe,' he
said. 'And now, worthy Macedonian, what can I do to vent my gratitude
for your most timely loan?'
Philipson was staring at the youth very hard. 'Gift,' he corrected,
shortly. 'Usury is not among my failings.'
Poyning bowed again. 'And a bourgeois pride is not among mine,' he
said. 'Gift be it called, then, which is the more noble, and moves me
to livelier thanks. How can I translate them into action?'
'Wait here for a few moments,' said Philipson, moving suddenly to the
door. 'Stay in this room, the pair of you, till I come back.'
As soon as he was gone I motioned our visitor to a chair. 'You're a
pretty cool hand,' I said. 'D'you always call people fancy names?'
'The wrathful Hebe, cupbearer to gods? The appellation was perhaps
rather daring than apt.'
'For some reason best known to yourself you also called my friend
"worthy Macedonian."'
He screwed a glass into his eye and rounded on me with an expression of
astonishment--whether feigned or genuine I couldn't tell.
'Dear me,' he said, 'can it be that the allusion was lost upon you? And
yet you would appear from your externals to be a man of some culture.'