The Golden Scorpion

Stuart shrank from her.

'You confess,' he said hoarsely, 'that you knowing lured men to death?'

'Ah, no!' she whispered, looking about her fearfully—'never! never! I swear it—never!'

'Then'—he stared at her blankly—'I do not understand you!'

'I dare not make it clearer—now: I dare not—dare not! But believe me! Oh, please, please,' she pleaded, her soft voice dropping to a whisper—'believe me! If you know what I risked to tell you so much, you would be more merciful. A horror which cannot be described'—again she shuddered—'will fall upon me if he ever suspects! You think me young and full of life, with all the world before me. You do not know. I am, literally, already dead! Oh! I have followed a strange career. I have danced in a Paris theatre and I have sold flowers in Rome; I have had my box at the Opera and I have filled opium pipes in a den at San Francisco! But never, never have I lured a man to his death. And through it all, from first to last, no man has so much as kissed my finger-tips!

'At a word, at a sign, I have been compelled to go from Monte Carlo to Buenos Ayres; at another sign from there to Tokio! Chunda Lal has guarded me as only the women of the East are guarded. Yet, in his fierce way, he has always tried to befriend me, he has always been faithful. But ah! I shrink from him many times, in horror, because I know what he is! But I may not tell you. Look! Chunda Lal has never been out of sound of this whistle'—she drew a little silver whistle from her dress—'for a moment since that day when he came into the house of the slave-dealer in Mecca, except——'

And now, suddenly, a wave of glorious colour flooded her beautiful face and swiftly she lowered her eyes, replacing the little whistle. Stuart's rebellious heart leapt madly, for whatever he might think of her almost incredible story, that sweet blush was no subterfuge, no product of acting.

'You almost drive me mad,' he said in low voice, resembling the tones of repressed savagery. 'You tell me so much, but withhold so much that I am more bewildered than ever. I can understand your helplessness in an Eastern household, but why should you obey the behests of this veiled monster in London, in New York, in Paris?'

She did not raise her eyes.

'I dare not tell you. But I dare not disobey him.'

'Who is he!'

'No one knows, because no one has ever seen his face! Ah! you are laughing! But I swear before heaven I speak the truth! Indoors he wears a Chinese dress and a green veil. In passing from place to place, which he always does at night, he is attired in a kind of cowl which only exposes his eyes——'

'But how can such a fantastic being travel?'

'By road, on land, and in a steam yacht, at sea. Why should you doubt my honesty?' She suddenly raises her glance to Stuart's face and he saw that she had grown pale. 'I have risked what I cannot tell you, and more than once—for you! I tried to call you on the telephone on the night that he set out from the house near Hampton Court to kill you, but I could get no reply, and——'

'Stop!' said Stuart, almost too exited to note at the time that she had betrayed a secret. 'It was you who rang up that night?

'Yes. Why did you not answer?'

'Never mind. Your call saved my life. I shall not forget.' He looked into her eyes. 'But can you not tell me what it all means? What or whom is 'The Scorpion'?'

She flinched.

'The Scorpion is—a passport. See.' From a little pocket in the coat of her costume she drew out a golden scorpion! 'I have one.' She replaced it hurriedly. 'I dare not, dare not tell you more. But this much I had to tell you, because … I shall never see you again!'

'What!'

'A French detective, a very clever man, learned a lot about 'The Scorpion' and he followed one of the members to England. This man killed him. Oh, I know I belong to a horrible organization!' she cried bitterly. 'But I tell you I am helpless and I have never aided in such a thing. You should know that! But all he found out he left with you—and I do not know if I succeeded in destroying it. I do not ask you. I do not care. But I leave England to-night. Good-bye.'

She suddenly stood up. Stuart rose also. He was about to speak when Miska's expression changed. A look of terror crept over her face, and hastily lowering her veil she walked rapidly away from the table and out of the room!

Many curious glances followed the elegant figure to the door. Then those glances were directed upon Stuart.

Flushing with embarrassment, he quickly settled the bill and hurried out of the hotel. Gaining the street, he looked eagerly right and left.

But Miska had disappeared!

Chapter 5 The Heart of Chunda Lal

Dusk had drawn a grey mantle over the East-End streets when Miska, discharging the cab in which she had come from Victoria, hurried furtively along a narrow alley tending Thamesward. Unconsciously she crossed a certain line—a line invisible except upon a map of London which lay upon the table of the Assistant Commissioner in New Scotland Yard—the line forming the 'red circle' of M. Gaston Max. And, crossing this line, she became the focus upon which four pairs of watchful eyes were directed.

Arriving at the door of a mean house some little distance removed from that of Ah-Fang-Fu, Miska entered, for the door was open, and disappeared from the view of the four detectives who were watching the street. Her heart was beating rapidly. For she had thought, as she had stood up to leave the restaurant, that the fierce eyes of Chunda Lal had looked in through the glass panel of one of the doors.

This gloomy house seemed to swallow her up, and the men who watched wondered more and more what had become of the elegant figure, grotesque in such a setting, which had vanished into the narrow doorway—and which did not reappear. Even Inspector Kelly, who knew so much about Chinatown, did not know that the cellars of the three houses left and right of Ah-Fang-Fu's were connected by a series of doors planned and masked with Chinese cunning.

Half an hour after Miska had disappeared into the little house near the corner, the hidden door in the damp cellar below 'The Pidgin House' opened and a bent old woman, a ragged, grey-haired and dirty figure, walked slowly up the rickety wooden stair and entered a bare room behind and below the shop and to the immediate left of the den of the opium-smoker. This room, which was windowless, was lighted by a tin paraffin lamp hung upon a nail in the dirty plaster wall. The floor presented a litter of straw, paper and broken packing-cases. Two steps led up to a second door, a square heavy door of great strength. The old woman, by means of a key which she carried, was about to open this door when it was opened from the other side.

Lowering his head as he came through, Chunda Lal descended. He wore European clothes and a white turban. Save for his ardent eyes and the handsome fanatical face of the man, he might have passed for a lascar. He turned and half closed the door. The woman shrank from him, but extending a lean brown hand he gripped her arm. His eyes glittered feverishly.

'So!' he said, 'we are all leaving England? Five of the Chinese sail with the P. and O. boat to-night. Ali Khan goes to-morrow, and Rama Dass, with Miguel, and the Andaman. I meet them at Singapore. But you?'

The woman raised her finger to her lips, glancing fearfully towards the open door. But the Hindu, drawing her nearer, repeated with subdued fierceness:

'I ask it again—but you?'

'I do not know,' muttered the woman, keeping her head lowered and moving in the direction of the steps.

But Chunda Lal intercepted her.

'Stop!' he said—'not yet are you going. There is something I have to speak to you.'

'Ssh!' she whispered, half turning and pointing up toward the door.