THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
propelled her irresistibly into the tavern, where he calmly locked her up in a room whose walls were lined with tousled bunks, beside which stood small stands littered with the paraphernalia of the opium-smoker.
A sound, coming from far off, cleared the stupor out of her head. It was the bassoon-like whistle of the Ajax. She was being left behind! She ran to the door, shook the knob, beat upon the panels until her knuckles began to bleed. Left behind! What did it mean? What could it mean? The rickshaw boy had not taken her hand-bag or purse. He had simply run away with her and locked her up. The motive was not robbery. She groped into a thousand channels for some clue to this amazing adventure, but there was no solution anywhere. She was being left behind, and almost penniless. It was maddening!
Some time after sunset they came for her, a huge Chinaman and a slim, lithe Malay. They robbed her of her hand-bag and purse. The Chinaman thrust his hand down her neck and tore loose the chamois bag. They then proceeded to bind her hands behind her back. Cloths were tied over her eyes and mouth. She submitted passively; she had sense enough to appreciate the utter folly of struggling. The Chinaman swung her over his shoulder and trotted down-stairs. Presently she knew that she was being put into a closed carriage.
She was in a peculiar state of mind. She dared not think; she must let herself drift, drift; that, or go mad with anxiety. She even tried to con-
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