There was a shrine directly facing the door. Incense burned in a bronze bowl. And squatting behind a long, low table on which a yellow manuscript was spread, he saw a very old man who wore just such a lama robe as that which Nayland Smith had worn.
The old man removed his spectacles and looked up. Tony found himself being analyzed by a pair of eyes which seemed—like the dreadful eyes of Fu Manchu—to read his thoughts. But these were kindly eyes.
There was a wooden stool near the door. He sat down, and listened for sounds from the street. He had to say something.
“Your door was open. Excellency—”
“My door is always open to those who may need me. Nor have I achieved excellency, my son.”
Tony became tongue-tied.
“I perceive,” the gentle voice went on, “that you are in some urgent danger. Give me the facts, and leave it to me to decide if I may justly help you.”
“There are people out there who want to arrest me.”
This confession was considered quietly.
“Have you committed any crime?”
“No, my father. My only crime is that I tried to help China, where I was born.”
Then the lama smiled again and said an unexpected but welcome thing.
“Have you seen a man with a crutch?”
Tony jumped up in his glad excitement.
“What is the name of his crutch?” he asked hoarsely.
“Freedom, my son. You are welcome.” He began to speak almost faultless English. “You are Captain McKay, for whom Sir Denis Nayland Smith is searching.^
“By God’s mercy, he found me out there and saved me from the mob!”
“He felt responsible for your safety. I hope he will join us shortly. No one saw you together?”
“I believe and hope not. A big Nubian, who is personal bodyguard of the man you call “The Master’ and who knows me, has just come into the town.”
“Has he seen you?”
“Not to my knowledge. But there’s a boy—”
He got no further. Splitting the perfumed quiet of the room, came uproar: “Escaped prisoner! . . . Search all the houses! . . . Reward for whoever . . .”
Tony felt the sharp pang of despair. A group had gathered just outside the house. The old lama raised his hand.
“Pray don’t disturb yourself, my son.”
He stood up. He proved to be much taller than Tony had judged. There was quiet dignity in his bearing. He went out, leaving the door ajar. Tony reached it in one stride and stood there, breathlessly listening.
Communist China might be irreligious, but the old beliefs still swayed the masses. On the babel outside fell sudden silence. It was broken by the gentle voice.
“What troubles you, my children?”
A chorus replied. There was a dangerous criminal hiding in the town. They were going to search all the houses.
“As you please. Search by all means—but not here. There is no criminal, dangerous or otherwise, in my house. And you are interrupting my studies.”
Tony heard him coming back. He heard mutterings outside as well. But when the lama re-entered the room his calm remained unruffled.
“My door is still open. But no one will come in.”
“You have great courage, father—and I thank you.”
The priest returned to his place behind the low table.
“Courage is a myth. There are only faith and doubt. Nor have you cause to thank me. You owe me nothing. If what I do has merit then mine is the debt to you.”
Tony dropped back on the stool, conscious of perspiration on his forehead. The noise of the crowd outside faded away. But, almost immediately, came a swift step along the passage and Nayland Smith walked in. He nodded to Tony and addressed the old lama in English.
“Dr. Li Wu Chang, you are a magician. I was on the fringe of the crowd outside and heard you dismiss them. Those people would eat out of your hand!”
“Because they know. Sir Denis, that I never told them a lie.”
“Misdirection is an art.” Nayland Smith grinned at Tony. “I prefer to call it magic!”
“Between you,” Tony burst out, “you have surely saved my life. But what do I do now?”
“First,” snapped Nayland Smith, “reverting to the last report I had before you were compelled to scrap your walkie-talkie. You explored some village on the pretext of looking for a mythical relative, or somebody. Sound strategy. Confirmation of your story, if questioned. You reported that you came across a large barbed-wire enclosure on the outskirts, with several buildings, resembling isolation hospital. Guards. You retired unobserved. Remember?”
“Clearly”
“What was the name of this village?”
Tony clutched his head, thought hard, and then: “Hua-Tzu,” he said.
“Good,” came the gentle voice of the lama. “As I suspected. That is the Soviet research plant!”
Nayland Smith, a strange figure with his shaven skull and monk’s robe, clapped Tony on the shoulder. “Sound work! And have you fathomed the identity of the Master?”
“I have. He cross-examined me in jail! The Master is Dr. Fu Manchu!”
* * *
Half an hour later, wearing a new outfit and a bamboo hat, supplied by the lama, the size of a car tire, and bending under a load of lumber, Tony set out along a narrow track formed by a dried-up ditch which ran at the foot of the lama’s little garden. It joined the canal not far from the sampan.
He was sweating, his new suit soiled, when he broke out on to the bank above the boat.
“Yueh Hua! Yueh Hua!”
There was no reply.
He couldn’t keep a sudden terror out of his voice as he jumped on board.
Then he dropped down and buried his face in his hands.
He had saved himself.
They had caught Moon Flower.
That abominable boy must have seen the boat and raced into the town to report it.
A wave of madness swept over him. He heard again the shrill voice of the fat wife of the jailer. He knew what Yueh Hua’s fate would be. And he had left her to it.
There was a mist before his eyes. He clenched his teeth, tried to think.
He leaped ashore like a madman and began to run. He had reached the road when he stopped running and dropped into a slow walk. Sanity, of sorts, was returning.
Why, as he still remained free, had no watch been posted over the sampan?
If only he could think clearly. He had avoided any reference to Yueh Hua during his interview with Nayland Smith and the lama. He was too sensitive on the subject to have faced the embarrassment of such an explanation, the quizzical smile of Sir Denis. So although he had another of the remarkable walkie-talkies and could easily get in touch with him in any emergency, the present emergency was one in which that resourceful man couldn’t be consulted.
So he must handle this situation alone.
He kept on his way toward the town. His huge hat and new clothes altered his appearance, but he was sure, by now, that his enemies would be hard to deceive.
Along the road ahead, he began to count the trees: One-two-three, up to seven, then straining his eyes, looking for the little figure.
In his sorrow and fury, he had thought of a lone-hand rescue of Yueh Hua from wherever they had her locked
