“I worry myself silly whenever you delay at——”
“My
He burst out laughing—and his laughter seemed to lift a load of care from his spirits. . . .
“You should congratulate me, Hepburn. In the character of a hard-drinking deck-hand sacked by the Cunard and trying to dodge the immigration authorities until I find a berth, I have made a marked success with my landlady, Mrs. Mulrooney of Orchard Street! I have every vice from hashish to rum, and I begin to suspect she loves me!”
“What about the rag and bone and a hank of hair?” Hepburn asked impishly.
Nayland Smith stared for a moment, and then laughed even more heartily.
“A hit to you,” he admitted; “but frankly, I feel that my inquiries are not futile. The Richet clue admittedly has led nowhere; but my East River investigations are beginning to bear fruit.”
He ceased laughing. His lean brown face grew suddenly grim.
“Think of the recovery by the river police of the body of the man Blondie Hahn.”
“Well?”
“All the facts suggested to me that he did not die on the water front or even very near to it. I maybe wrong, Hepburn . . . but I think I have found Dr. Fu Manchu’s water-gate!”
“What!”
“We shall see. The arrival in New York this morning of the Chinese general, Li Wu Chang, has greatly intrigued me. I have always suspected Li Wu Chang of being one of the Seven.”
“Who are the Seven?”
“Nayland Smith snapped his fingers.
“Impossible to go into that now. I have much to do to-day if our plans are to run smoothly to-night. Your post is in Chinatown. We both have plenty to employ us in the interval. Should I miss you, the latest details will be on the desk”—he pointed—”and Fey will be here in constant touch. . . .”
Mark Hepburn, from his seat overlooking the pond in Central Park, watched the path from the Scholar’s Gate. Presently he saw Moya Adair approaching.
It was a perfect winter’s day; the air was like wine, visibility was remarkable. Because his heart leapt his dour training reproached him. He had abandoned the cape, property of an eccentric artist friend, and now his bearded chin stuck out from an upturned fur collar.
On the woman’s side this meeting was a move in a fight for freedom. But Mark Hepburn, starkly honest, knew that on his side it was a lover’s meeting. It was unfair to Nayland Smith that this important investigation, which might lead to control of a bridge to the enemy’s stronghold, should have been left in his hands. Moreover, it was torture to himself. . .
He loved the ease of her walk, the high carriage of her head. There was pedigree in every graceful line. Her existence in this gang ofsuperthugs, who now apparently controlled the whole of the American underworld, was a mystery which baulked his imagination.
She smiled as he stood up to meet her. He allowed the mad idea that they were avowed lovers—that he had a right to take her in his arms and kiss her—to dazzle his brain for one delirious moment. Actually, he said:
“You are very punctual, Mrs. Adair.”
She sat down beside him. Her composure, real or assumed, was baffling. There was a short silence, an uneasy one on Mark Hepburn’s side; then:
“I suppose,” he said, “the death of Harvey Bragg means a change of plan?”
Moya shook her head.
“For me, no,” she replied. “I am continuing my work at Park Avenue. The League of Good Americans is to go on, and Paul Salvaletti has taken charge.”
She spoke impersonally, a little wearily.
“But you must regret the death of Harvey Bragg?”
“As a Christian, I do, for I cannot think that he was fit to die. As a man”—she paused for a moment, staring up at the cold, blue sky—”if he had lived, I don’t know what I should have done. You see”—she turned to Hepburn—”I had no choice: I had to go to him. But my life there was hell.”
Mark Hepburn looked away. He was afraid of her eyes. Nayland Smith’s injunction, “Be very careful,” seemed to ring in his ears.
“Why did you have to go to him?” he asked.
“Well—although I know how hard this must be for you to understand—Harvey Bragg, although he never knew it, was little more than a cog in a wheel. I am another cog in the same wheel.” She smiled, but not happily. “He never really controlled the League of Good Americans, nor the many other organizations of which he was the nominal head.”
“Then who does control them?” he questioned harshly.
“When I say that I don’t know, I am literally speaking the truth. But there’s someone far bigger than Harvey Bragg working behind the scenes. Please believe that I dare not tell you any more now.”
Hepburn clenched his fists, plunged deep in the pockets of his topcoat.
“Was Harvey Bragg’s murder in accordance with the”—he hesitated—”revolutions of this wheel?”
