The slow, cold, monotonous words of the old Chinaman thrust terror into Vincent’s heart. But he steadied himself and became quite calm as he shrugged his shoulders, and replied:
“Wu Sun said nothing to me about a key. He gave me the token only. He must have forgotten the key.”
Wang Foo pointed one finger upward.
“Wu Sun never forgets,” he announced.
The uplifted finger turned and pointed straight at Vincent. The significance of it suddenly dawned upon him. It was a signal!
He turned quickly, but he was too late. From the tapestries at the sides of the room, two giant Chinamen had already emerged.
Before he could move a hand to resist, Vincent was stretched upon the floor, his arms pinned behind his back, and his feet bound with leather thongs!
CHAPTER IX
THE ROOM OF DOOM
Vincent had been lying for a full hour on the floor of Wang Foo’s elegant den. His hands and feet were bound with leather straps that would not yield; a silken gag prevented him from crying out for help.
The old tea merchant paid no more attention to him than if he had been a part of the furnishings of the room. Vincent could watch the bespectacled Mongol as he wrote at his desk. Wang Foo was a mild-appearing Chinaman, but nothing in his actions brought hope to the captive American.
The Chinese disk - the token of Hoang-Ho - had been taken from Vincent’s pocket, but he had not been injured in any way.
What would Wang Foo do next? Vincent had pondered upon the question ever since his capture. There seemed to be no answer.
At last, after minutes that seemed endless, Wang Foo arose from his desk and walked with tottering steps to a corner where Vincent could see a Chinese gong. The aged Celestial tapped the gong four times. Instantly, the two huge Chinese reappeared from behind the tapestries.
“Clever old chap,” said Vincent to himself. “Has two strong men always ready. The place looked harmless enough when I came in.”
Wang Foo pointed a birdlike claw toward the prostrate captive helpless on the floor. Without further ado, the two yellow giants lifted Vincent, and carried him to the door. Wang Foo opened it for them.
In the hallway, as though by secret understanding, they were joined by the Chinaman who had first met Vincent in the shop and who had guided him to Wang Foo’s apartment. He it was who took the lead, jangling a ring of large, brass keys. The two with Vincent for burden, followed. Wang Foo brought up the rear.
The party proceeded up a steep, side stairway which Vincent had not observed upon his arrival. The Celestial with the keys, unlocked door after door for them. There were many doors, and the unlocking of each was made a little ceremony.
At last, following a confusing journey, they entered a cell-like chamber. It was lighted by a faint share of daylight which trickled through a small, barred window.
There Vincent was deposited. Four posts surrounded him; a wooden collar supported his neck; his ankles rested upon a similar, semi-circular device which was open at the top.
Staring upward, Vincent saw a vague shape looming from above. And, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he was able to identify this as the sharp blade of a huge cleaver suspended from the upright posts.
The yellow men were engaged in thrusting a chain beneath Vincent’s arms.
Momentarily struck by panic, Vincent attempted to struggle to his feet. At once, one of his captors pounded upon his legs, pinning them down. Then Vincent felt a second chain being wound about his ankles. There followed the click of padlocks.
The leather thongs were left in position, as well. Vincent found it impossible to move his body; his position seemed barren of hope.
Wang Foo clapped his leathery hands. The three Chinamen left.
“You have made a great mistake,” said the ancient Celestial in his even-toned, perfect English. “For this you will know your doom. We who come from the land of China, do not delight in torture, although the ignorant say we do. We bring quick death - the death that you will experience.”
He stepped back. Vincent followed him with his eyes, and saw the old Chinaman lift a chain from the great cleaver that loomed from above.
“When this chain is released,” explained Wang Foo, in a pitiless voice, “the great knife will fall and end your life. It will be quick that you will feel no pain.”
Wang Foo replaced the chain.
“I, myself,” he said, “shall let the great knife fall. From my own room, the mere touch of my hand will do the work. None up here can stop it. But, lest my plan should fail, I shall leave a guard to watch you.”
He clapped his hands four times. A short, bland-faced Chinaman appeared in the doorway. Wang Foo gave instructions in Chinese, and the other man bobbed his head.
“The exact moment of your death,” said old Wang Foo, again addressing his prisoner, “will be arranged beforehand.”
He turned to the new arrival and took from him a huge hourglass, which he set on the sill beside the barred window. Vincent could see the glass plainly. The sand was all in the bottom.
“In my study,” continued Wang Foo, “is another hourglass the mate of this one. Both are true to the last grain. The sands which pour from one are equaled by the sands from the other. Both will begin to fall at the same moment. When the last grain has fallen in the glass upon my desk, I shall release the great knife. You will know that moment if you watch the glass upon the window.
“So you see I shall be kind to you. I shall give you one hour to live, and let you watch that hour as it departs.”
Wang Foo bowed deeply and left the room. The other Chinaman remained, leaning in the doorway, watching Vincent intently. A few minutes later, a gong struck from a room below.
Hearing the muffled sound, the Chinaman in the doorway pattered to the windowsill and inverted the hourglass. The prisoner could see the first grains of sand as they began to fall.
The Chinaman was back in the doorway, still on guard, and the moments were passing.
Vincent’s eyes remained upon the hourglass. The slow, regular falling of the sands was fascinating. But, as he saw the little mound increase in the lower portion of the glass, the full fear of death crept over him.
He strove to release the bonds which held him. He worked frantically, exerting his full strength.
At last he was exhausted. He had not moved his body the fraction of an inch.
His eyes sought the Chinaman who guarded the door. He could see him in the gloom, but he could not cry out to the man, because of the silken gag in his mouth.
It meant nothing, however. It would be useless to plead with the accomplice of Wang Foo.
Vincent turned his eyes toward the hourglass. Nearly half of the sand had dropped. He could picture the other glass in Wang Foo’s den; the old Mongol there, writing, apparently unnoticing, but always watching from the corner of his eye, as the sands fell in the glass upon the desk. “Quick death!” thought Vincent and shuddered.
A second Chinaman appeared in the doorway. Vincent became aware of this when he heard a mumbled conversation. The first man departed; the newcomer remained on guard.
Evidently Wang Foo left nothing to chance. He was switching the watchers during the course of the hour so that a thoroughly alert guard would surely be on duty.
The grains of sand were falling with the same meaningful monotony. It was as though they were grains of sugar sweetening the cup of life, for right then and there the man who had but recently tried to take his own life was finding that life very worth the living.
Vincent attempted to forget the ominous glass that was spelling out the fragment of earthdom which remained. He sought to locate human aid, and, although his better judgment told him it was useless, his eyes sought the face of the Chinese guard.
The Mongol was looking straight before him, oblivious as an idol. His face was like a dull yellow globe in the semidarkness coming to the room. The afternoon was waning; the insufficient light in the little room of death made
