The Popular Magazine/Volume 9/Number 3/The Door of the Double-Dragon

by George Bronson-Howard

The Door of the Double-Dragon

By George Bronson-Howard
Author of “Plantagenet Hock: Hero,” “Norroy, Diplomatic Agent,” Etc. .

One of these days something is going to happen in China and the big lazy kingdom will awaken to new life and a new energy that will startle the world. Mr. Bronson-Howard presages the awakening, and tells of a rebellion such as history has never before recorded—a rebellion in which the master spirit is a purposeful American. The author held a commission as captain of cavalry in the Chinese army, and his story is intensely realistic.

(A Complete Novel)

Prologue.

It had been snowing steadily all day, the fall ceasing only with the dusk. The Flemish villas and Queen Anne's cottages along Club Road were festooned with the flakes; and in front of the Renshaws' some boys had built a snow fort. The Renshaws always closed their house for the winter and went into town, so that there was no one to disturb the fort-builders.

One of the hoodlums who hung about the gates of the Country Club to hold horses or buckle on skates had joined the youngsters, and was directing their efforts. The snow fort finished, he elected to remain behind it with the larger boys, and to make of the others an attacking party. The latter having suffered severely for some time now suggested that places be changed, and that they become the defenders. This project falling through, proceedings came to a halt, and both sides manufactured snowballs for an emergency.

A number of people passed, but they were members of the club, and personally known to the boys—also to the hoodlum. It was not deemed wise to bombard these. A negro servant, however, was not so fortunate, but fled toward Roland Avenue with smarting face. Much diverted, the hoodlum made a compact ball of snow about a jagged stone.

“Wait till she comes back,” said he.

Some of the boys demurred at this. It was not fair to put stones in snowballs. “You might hurt somebody, Jerry,” urged a flaxen-haired youngster in a Scotch-cap.

“Oh, mama!” jeered Jerry.

The flaxen-haired boy pulled his cap over his eyes and stalked away, followed by several of his friends.

“Let the sissies go.”

Jerry, a youth of some nineteen years, large-framed, heavy-jawed, and held in fear as a fighter of ability, laughed mockingly and rolled his snowball the tighter. The hoodlums were of a different species from the boys who lived in the vicinity of Club Road. They came from Hampden, another suburb a mile or so down the avenue, lured to the Country Club by the promise of occasional odd jobs. Jerry had once been a caddy and a toboggan attendant, but had been discharged for insolence to the club members.

“Say, fellers, here comes our meat!”

It was an odd, pathetic little figure that he indicated—an undersized Chinese, in the garments of his race, with white-stockinged ankle showing beneath his capacious garment, and on his head a little black skull-cap, ornamented with a red button.

“See who can knock his cap off first,” whispered Jerry. “Wait until I say 'Fire!' Then all to once.”

The Chinese approached, his hands huddled up in the long sleeves of his outer garment, his eyes seeking the ground, his head bent, his appearance dejected. He was not aware of the presence of the boys. He seemed absorbed in meditation.

“Fire!”

Ball after ball of the hard snow struck him, stinging his ears, his nose, breaking against his teeth. He saw brilliant lights dance before him. Stunned, he stumbled back, his hand upraised protectingly.

This was a sport after Jerry's mean little heart—the torturing of a helpless creature. He picked up the stone snowball and poised it. The others had gathered each a ball also.

“Fire!”

The Chinese staggered against the Renshaws' brick wall, clutching at the dead ivy. There was a long gash on his forehead where the stone snowball had struck him, and the blood ran into his eyes and mouth. The little boys, seeing the blood, drew back dismayed, looking accusingly at Jerry. But they had little time for reflection, for a whirlwind dashed in among them, bowling them over right and left, like so many ninepins.

“Who did that? Who did that, I say? Oh, you nasty, despicable little cowards! You, Bobby Dahlgren. I see you! You needn't try to hide. I see you, too, Vincent Bates.”

“We were only throwing snowballs, Bess. Honest we were. Jerry put a stone in his—that's what did it. We didn't have stones in ours——”

“Jerry! Who is Jerry?”

They pointed out the hulking fellow. The next moment a riding-crop came down full on his head. With a roar he came toward her; again it stung him; again, again, again, in spite of his rushes, until an unusually severe blow laid him out stiff in the snow.

“You've killed him, Bess; you've killed him!”

The girl put out a small booted foot and pushed the body out of the way. “Pah!” she said. “Rub some snow in his ears, and you'll find out whether I've killed him. The miserable coward!”

The jingle-of sleigh-bells approaching ceased, and a sleigh pulled up by the curb. A blond young man in an English tweed suit threw off the lap-robe and tossed the reins to his companion. He approached the girl, who was stanching the wound on the Celestial's forehead with a bit of cambric handkerchief. One tan gauntlet had been flung down on the snow while she was performing her act of mercy, and the stained riding-crop lay alongside. The blond young man picked up both.

“Hello, Bess! What's the matter?”

She turned her head, and saw him. “Oh, it's you, Frank Emory. I'm glad you've come. This poor man's in a fearful way. He mumbles, and doesn't seem to understand. The little brutes have been snowballing him; and one of those club caddies put a stone in his snowball—and you see what's happened. Who's in that sleigh with you?”

“You don't know him. He's a West Point cadet. Wrenne's his name. He's in Jim's class.”

She did not appear interested. “Well, you and Mr. Wrenne carry this poor man into your sleigh, and take him to my house. I'll ride right in back of you. Go ahead now, Frank! Don't stop to think about it. We want to get him home to-night.”

It so happened, however, that the Chinese could walk. Emory helped him into the sleigh.

“You'll have to get out,” said the girl decidedly, addressing the West Pointer. “Go back to the club and wait till Frank has taken him to my house. Will you please hurry?”

The other youth got out. Emory put the lap-robe about the Chinese, chirruped to his horse, and the sleigh was off. The girl's horse, which had been standing quite quietly during the whole affair, looked at his mistress with inquiring eyes.

“Come, help me up,” she said to Wrenne.

He made a cup of his palms, into which she put her foot for the slightest second; then, with a salute of her riding-crop, pelted after Emory, leaving Wrenne with a confused vision of tangled brown curls, healthy, flushed cheeks, a thin, girlish form, and magnificent eyes that had no shrinking in them. He watched her as she turned into Roland Avenue, seemingly a part of her brown mare, supple, swaying, then turned to the quiet group of little boys gathered around the prostrate Jerry.

Jerry had a number of bruises and one cut. Industrious rubbing of snow had had its effect, and he was groaning and coming out of his unconsciousness. He arose to look into the eyes of young Hamilton Wrenne.

“Damn that——”

Wrenne had a curiously dangerous look when he chose. Jerry decided not to be explicit in his damnation. He slouched off toward Roland Avenue, and Wrenne went back to the Country Club to join the tea-drinking crowd that sat before the huge brick fireplace, where great logs sputtered and crackled and sent thousands of little red sparks dancing up the chimney. As he sat there, he took from his pocket a bit of cambric stained with blood. He stared at it for some time, and at the monogram in one corner—“E. C.” Presently he went below to the lavatory, and washed the cambric carefully in one of the bowls. Wringing it out, he folded it and put it back in his pocket.

With his resumption of his seat by the fireplace, he lighted a cigarette, and continued to meditate. He did not know any of the people at the club, for he was not a Baltimore man, but a guest of Frank Emory, whose brother had been in his class at the Point.

But Hamilton Wrenne was not one of those strangers to go unnoticed. His youth was not patent. He was scarcely past his twenty-first birthday, but he looked much older, due to his excessive darkness and his heavy growth of beard and mustache, which, although carefully shaven, was evident in the hardness of his cheeks and upper lip. He was dark in the manner peculiar to English-speaking races. No one would have mistaken him for a Latin. It was a mere atavism of countenance; the recurrence of the strain of black Danes who had first ravaged, then defended, England. His hair was quite black, his complexion swarthy but clear. He had a hawk-nose and firm lips, and a certain boldness was in his dark-blue eyes. Less than six feet in height, he carried himself with so easy an erectness that he did not appear so.

He had just finished his cigarette when Frank Emory returned, and drew another armchair up beside him. Stretching his arms, he ungloved his hands and rubbed them before the fire.

“Might as well take dinner here now, Hammy,” he said. “It'll be too late to get in there in time to dress. They're to have the Yarnells and some others there to-night, and they'll expect us to show some open front. The club for me.”

Wrenne acquiesced. They sent a servant for a bill of fare, ordered, and sat back, smoking.

“Who was the girl, Frank?” Wrenne asked.

“Oh! Brown Bess! Miss Elizabeth Courtney, if you like that better. Won't she be a lulu when she grows up? She's only about sixteen now! Why, she's Austin Courtney's sister. Austin's the paying-teller at the Iron Bank. Awfully good family, and all that—up to their necks in debts. Father gambled most of it away. Relatives had some pull, and got Austin in the bank. He's one of your sporty kind. Chorus-girls and the races, and bachelor apartments in town. Lot he helps the family! Don't know how they get credit. Guess the relatives help some. George Griscom's wife is Mrs. Courtney's sister, and the Griscoms could give every man in Baltimore a couple of dollars apiece and not know they had spent anything. Bess is going to make good, though.”

“She's one of the most attractive kids I ever saw,” Wrenne remarked.

“She sure is. But I wasn't thinking about her looks. She paints, you know. Now, don't make that silly joke—I mean, of course, that she paints pictures.”

“At her age!”

“Well, I should say so. She's been drawing ever since she was a tot. Original as the devil! Made a caricature of Jim in his first cadet uniform four years ago, when she was twelve. I've got it framed and hung up in my room.”

“You mean to tell me a twelve-year-old kid did that! Why, I thought that——”

“Oh, yes, I know. Everybody does. We all concede that Bess is a wonder. She's gone in for technique lately, and works every day at the Charcoal Club. They've got a man there who used to be with Julian, and who took some prizes at the Paris salon. He's enthusiastic about her. Bess is the girl for my money, all right. And she can ride like a clipper, too. She follows the Elkridge hounds every Saturday, and has got the nerve and pluck of any two average men.”

They went below to wash up, and later one of the servants informed them their dinner was ready.

“When are you going back to the Point, Hammy?” asked Emory, when they were seated by one of the square-paned windows overlooking the snow-covered valley.

He had met Wrenne at Union Station early that afternoon, and taken him out in his sleigh before going home. Up to now they had not discussed personalities. Emory was rather surprised that Wrenne was not at the academy, for he knew the winter term was on. Wrenne was to graduate that year along with Frank's brother Jim.

“I'm not going back at all, Frank,” answered Wrenne. “I was booked through for Washington, but I thought I'd drop off here and let you know about my case. I probably sha'n't see you again for years and years. I've an appointment to-morrow with the Chinese ambassador in Washington.”

“With the Chinese ambassador!” Emory laid down his fork.

“Prezactly! He is to give me my appointment as a captain in the Chinese army!”

Emory stared at him, not well pleased. “Chucking the service?”

“Been chucked, Frank. Oh, it was done very quietly! The superintendent was a friend of dad's, and he allowed me to resign. They caught me playing cards after taps. It was my room—the rest skedaddled. Lights up, and Cadet Captain Hamilton Wrenne discovered amid playing-cards, poker-chips, beer-bottles, and cigarettes. Case for court-martial, all right; but the newspapers have been making so beastly much rot over hazing and other things that the court-martial was given the go-by. The superintendent asked me for the names of the other chaps. In case I peached, I was to be reduced to the ranks, lose a lot of points in grade, do 'sentry-go' for a month or so, etcetera and etcetera. The others would get the same dose. In case I refused to give up, I would lose the chance of graduating.”

“Well?”

Hamilton Wrenne smiled. “Good Lord, Frank!” he said protestingly.

“Of course, old man.”

Wrenne drank some coffee. “Well, it was hard lines. Dad and grandad both retired generals, and their son not allowed to graduate! Perhaps it's better they're dead. They'd have taken it pretty hard. But the superintendent was decent. He let me resign, and recommended that my resignation be accepted. Then he took me aside, and told me the Chinese were looking for military-school men to teach their soldiers to fight in our fashion. I made application, was accepted. To-morrow I see the Chinese ambassador, get my appointment and expenses, and go to Peking.”

Emory stretched his hand across the table and touched the other's fingers. “Good boy, Hammy!” he said softly. “But it was hard lines, hard lines. You were pretty near at the top of your class, too.”

“Only one man ahead of me.” Wrenne sat silent for a minute, then: “Let's have a drink, Frank. I can't sign checks at this club, or I'd order one myself. Don't bother about me. I'm going to have a good time out there in China. I haven't read Kipling for nothing. Always did want to get 'somewheres east of Suez'—was going to apply for a Philippines scouts' commission. Dare say I can climb higher in this Chinese service. I'll have a freer hand, anyhow.”

They drank to one another. The dinner finished, they lingered over their cognac, coffee, and cigarettes.

“Where does Bess Courtney live?”

“Only about two blocks from here. Curious her taking in that Chinese, wasn't It, and you going out to China? Do you know what that fool kid did? She took him right into the house, and made their nigger John undress him and put him to bed. Then she sent for the doctor. Curious kid, very. Why do you ask?”

Hamilton Wrenne had taken the bit of cambric handkerchief from his pocket. He was rubbing it between his fingers.

“Like to drop over and call?”

For a moment an affirmative trembled on Wrenne's lips, but it went away when he smiled. It was rather a sad smile, and a shake of the head accompanied it.

“I'd be afraid to, Frank. You see, I've got to start for China to-morrow.”

BOOK ONE.

Chapter I.

To Paint the Portrait of a Prince.

The favor of your presence
is requested on the evening
of the 18th of October at
Holmwood House:
To meet
His Imperial Highness:
Prince Chu'un.
R.S.V.P. to
Mrs. Patterson Corby.

This form of invitation was in the hands of every one of the slightest note in Washington society by October 1. And no one failed to send an acceptance. It was not often that even Washingtonians were able to meet the brother of an emperor; and Prince Chu'un and his imperial Chinese majesty had the same father.

The prince was distinguished in another way. He had been partly educated among white people. Patterson Corby had been his classmate at Oxford, and adjudged him as a very decent sort of chap according to any standard. It was a distinct plume in Mrs. Corby's bonnet that she should, by virtue of this previous acquaintanceship, be able to introduce the prince to the social elect of Washington; and she reduced a check-book to stubs in order that the setting should be fit for the jewel.

Patterson Corby had family, and his wife had wealth. Holmwood House was, therefore, an exceedingly desirable place to which to be invited. It was a huge pile of white masonry in the Renaissance style—stone-walled, iron gated, with a grassy stretch surrounding it, an Italian pergola, and a toy lake. Within, it was distinguished by lofty ceilings, marble pillars, marvelous frescos, and not too much furniture. The Patterson Corbys believed in long stretches of space, in order that their priceless fittings might be properly appreciated.

Mrs. Patterson Corby received in the Chinese room. This had been one of her pet projects; and on it she had lavished much wealth, attention, and good taste. It now fitted quite excellently into the scheme of things. Its frescos might have been the wonder of Chinese artists; they carried out the Oriental style and color effect, but were executed with the strength and originality of a brain not so old as the Chinese. The painted silk screens were from the same hand. The carved chairs, lacquered columns, swinging-lamps, and rare rugs were only to be rivaled by those of the imperial palace itself. A subtle Oriental perfume pervaded the atmosphere.

The guests began to arrive at a little after nine; and Mrs. Corby received from a raised platform, the prince by her side, and behind him a man in the dress uniform of the Chinese Army—gorgeous yellow with gold frogging, and a crucifix-hilted sword encrusted with topazes. There were several decorations on his breast; and, as he stood bareheaded, he held in his hand a mandarin hat, with peacock plume and crystal button. They saw him to be a European.

Prince Chu'un himself was an exceedingly handsome but weak-chinned Oriental. His eyes were not oblique, nor was his nose flat. His features were as regular as a European's might have been, and only his saffron complexion marked him indubitably a Chinese. He had splendid, enthusiastic eyes, and a thin, straight, high-bridged nose.

Dressed in the imperial yellow, with the Double-Dragon interwoven throughout in gold threads, his gown belted about the waist by a golden-linked belt, clasped with a carven topaz, he was a singularly stately figure. He held his hat in his hand, in deference to the European custom, as he smiled upon each briefly presented one, turning afterward with a graceful sweep of the body to the uniformed man behind him:

“My aide-de-camp, Colonel Wrenne.”

And the guests, mixing with one another, and generally failing to catch the name, asked one another who that striking-looking, black-avised man might be.

“His aide-de-camp, Colonel Somebody.”

“But he's not a Chinese.”

“Who said he was? They have white officers in the Chinese Army.” This from the former consul to Shanghai.

“Do you know him?”

But the consul was out of ear-shot.

“His name's Wrenne,” volunteered the daughter of a cabinet official. “He called on father the other day.”

“Wrenne? Well, upon my soul, if it isn't old Hammy Wrenne?” An army lieutenant speaking this time.

“Do you know him?”

“Rath-er! My cadet captain. Resigned five years ago. Sad story, very. Never mind that. Heard he went out to China and quite distinguished himself. Must have a word with old Hammy.”

He took himself off.

But it was not particularly easy to have word with Colonel Hamilton Wrenne about that time. The formal presentation of the guests over, the prince and his body-guard had been surrounded by half a score of gushing débutantes and earnest, purposeful ladies interested in Chinese foreign missions. The prince, who spoke very good English, was trying to answer the purposeful ladies, while Wrenne managed to keep the débutantes at bay.

In fact, it was a toss-up as to which one of the two was really the most interesting. This Colonel Wrenne, with his clear, swarthy skin, his intensely black hair and bold eyes, his tightly fitting uniform and shining boots bringing out every line of his slim, powerful form, was decidedly out of the ordinary. An American, young, the confidant of the prince. There was a smack of the mysterious about him to which his careless air and clear-cut features gave an entrancing touch of the debonair. He was ready with his tongue, too; had many pleasant gallantries and an effective manner of rendition, so that for the moment the recipient of the flattery imagined that he might have implied more than he said.

He was growing decidedly tired of it, however, and welcomed the news that the grand opera tenor had arrived. He sought the prince, and the crowd followed them to the music-room, those who could not get in making the best of it in the conservatories outside.

It was then that the prince managed to speak privately for a moment with his aide-de-camp.

“You saw that marvelous artistry, Black Wrenne? You saw the clouds and the rice-fields and the dragons? You saw the Buddha face? Eh, my Wrenne?”

“You mean the decorations of the room where you received?”

“No other, my Wrenne. Wonder that we have not the artist at the palace. Chinese he surely is; but in China we have no such artist. What do you think, my Black Wrenne—eh?”

“It's good work,” the aide-de-camp responded. “I'll ask this Corby woman the name of the artist when De Kurtz finishes.”

The tenor was vociferously applauded. He put one hand on his little fat stomach, bowed so that the lights shone on the pomaded remnants of his hair, and strutted off.

“If he could only sing from behind a screen!” sighed a female voice near Wrenne. He turned, and caught a glimpse of hair like burnished copper, with two little curls loose at the neck. He would have followed, for some vague recognition had come to his mind. The prince's hand on his arm detained him.

“The turkey-cock will again crow!” said the prince.

De Kurtz was back by the piano for his encore. He had a marvelous voice; and the proof of it lay in the fact that, when he had bowed, many took deep breaths. Mrs. Patterson Corby herself had forgotten the prince for the minute; now she was by his side again. But the wife of the British ambassador had claimed his attention, and she was left to speak to Hamilton Wrenne. She said something unimportant about De Kurtz's singing, to which he replied in kind, then:

“Mrs. Corby, the prince admires your decorations in the Chinese room.”

She smiled brilliantly.

“Does he? I'm terribly glad. I think they're simply perfect. He must meet the artist. She's here to-night.”

“She?”

“Yes. Isn't it odd? A girl did them. And——”

“American?”

“Yes. She's a sort of relative of mine. That is, George Griscom's wife is her aunt. And George is a cousin of mine. Her family's awfully hard up. Nice people, though, very! Baltimoreans. You might know them. The—— Oh, there she is. Come along, Colonel Wrenne.”

He followed her as she threaded her way through couples and groups straight to where a girl in a white lace gown was talking to a lean, bronzed Englishman and a thin Japanese. Both had the broad, red ribbon of the Diplomatic Corps across their shirt-fronts; and both wore a multiplicity of glittering orders' pinned to the lapels of their dress coats.

“Miss Courtney, let me present Colonel Wrenne. Bess, this is Prince Chu'un's friend. They've been admiring your work tremendously.”

Remembering her duty as a hostess, Mrs. Corby then went elsewhere.

“Do you know Captain Abercrombie—and Count Ito Ugichi, Colonel Wrenne?”

He bowed to the Englishman and nodded to the Japanese. “Oh, I know the count,” he said. His tone did not imply that he knew anything favorable about him. “How d'ye do, captain? Think we had you up at Shan-hai-kuan once, didn't we? I was sorry I wasn't there. Parker spoke of you.”

“Oh, quite right. To be sure. Hamilton Wrenne, eh? Yes, to be sure. So you're old Yuan-shi-Kai's pet—what? The man who put down the rebellion in Cheh-li? I say, come to the club after this is over, won't you? Army and Navy—yes! You've a card, of course. I'd like to talk over Chinaway with you. Chin-chin.”

This with the smile of those who have a common interest in the Orient. He bowed to Miss Courtney, and went off.

“The prince is looking for you, Ugichi,” said Wrenne.

The Japanese did not look very well pleased; but his meaningless smile submerged his expression. With him gone, Wrenne took the girl's arm and led her into the chrysanthemum section of the conservatory, where great balls of yellow, white, and pink nodded at them. He seated her, and remained standing, looking down at her wealth of hair, little curls of which clung about her neck, ears, and forehead.

She had lost the tan of her childhood through long studio confinement, and her face was now as clear white as her rounded shoulders. Lost, too, was the thinness of her form. It had changed to an exquisite slimness. But the eyes were the same—that old red-brown, almost comparable to the darkest of rubies, with slumbering fires in their depths.

“Miss Courtney, you don't remember me.”

It was the first thing he had said to her. He had been looking into her eyes for some little time. She had returned his gaze frankly without the least appearance of coquetry.

“I was wondering if you were going to speak. Do you know I was going to quote Tweedledum to you: 'If you think we're wax images, you ought to pay; if you think we're human——'”

“Well, you don't look like most humans.”

“The compliment is lost in the insinuation, Colonel Wrenne. Try again.”

“I've remembered you for five years.”

“That's better; but perhaps you have a mind for detail. Most military people have. In what train of well-ordered thought was I a detail?”

“You were not a detail at all. You were the radiating center.”

“Bravo! On the left we have the radiating lady. To the right the boneless man.”

She adopted the tone of a circus-barker.

“Seriously, Miss Courtney—Brown Bess they used to call you—you don't remember me, eh?”

“I have a vague recollection of your intense blackness of hair and eyes. I can't conceive forgetting those. I'm a painter, you see.”

“You take away with your left, what you give with your right. However, my vanity isn't hurt. You only saw me for a minute—maybe less. It was five years ago. The Club Road at Roland Park. Some boys throwing stones at a Chinese!”

“You——”

“No, I wasn't one of the boys throwing stones. You flatter my youth, Brown Bess. I was the man you peremptorily ordered out of the sleigh.”

“You——”

“Yes. I'd just been sacked from West Point, and had accepted an appointment in the Chinese Army! The next day I saw the Chinese ambassador, and before night I was on my way to San Francisco to take the P. M. boat for Shanghai.”

“Frank Emory's friend!”

“Yes. I must look up Frank, by the bye. I suppose he——”

“He's in his father's office. A lawyer. All the Emorys take to the law when they don't go into the army. They are a family with traditions.”

“Yes, to be sure. Well, you can see now how I've remembered you. It was the turning-point in my life.”

“I told you I was only a detail.” She laughed.

“Let's be serious,” pleaded Wrenne.

“Gaiety doesn't come often enough to fling it away carelesslike. We can be serious enough without trying. However, have it your own way. That was the turning-point in my life, too. And also due to Chinese influence. There's a bond of futurity between us, Colonel Wrenne.”

“How a turning-point in your life?”

“You remember the Chinese I took home? He was the influence. It so happened that he was a Chinese gentleman—and an artist in his way. I nursed him through an attack of brain fever, and he took some sort of a fancy to me. Mother was furious, but—well, she gave in. We had a little outhouse on the grounds, and he went there to live. He paid us for it by taking care of our garden. Thanks to him, we have the most magnificent garden anywhere about Baltimore. He could do the queerest things with flowers. He added to it, and finally built a hothouse. The family's awfully glad he's with us now—there's a big demand for his flowers. He's quite the fashionable florist. And we get the money! Nice, isn't it?”

“Very. But his influence on you?”

“He taught me the Chinese color scheme and distance effect. Also the grotesquery. My own instincts supply the realism of face and figure. Occidental technique added to Oriental imagery! It's something quite new.”

“You've done wonderful work. This Chinese of yours must be a treasure.”

“He is. It's odd, isn't it?”

“Everything connected with the Chinese is odd—to us. We can't get their view-point. The Chinese soul is old; very old. It's been satiated with all the emotions. We are distressingly new and interested. I'd like to see your Chinese treasure.”

“You can't. He won't have anything to do with other Chinese, nor with any one who's been in China. I've tried that before. There's some sort of a mystery there.”

“Everything Chinese is mysterious—to us. But, Miss Courtney, I want you to meet the prince.”

“I shook hands with both him and you. You don't seem to remember that!”

“I must have been saying something to the last person I shook hands with. Will you come?”

She nodded. They left the conservatory. The prince was not in the Chinese room, the music-room, nor the Louis XIV reception-room. They ran him to earth under a hexagonal lantern in the Flemish cell.

Miss Courtney was briefly presented as the artist whose work the imperial one had deigned to notice. Wrenne used the florid form satirically.

“He mocks our customs in his English, this Black Wrenne,” smiled the prince. “You know our art, it would seem, Miss Courtney. I had imagined the artist one of my countrymen. A new touch! You preserve our conventions and atmosphere, and add realism. I am very charmed with your work, Miss Courtney.”

She thanked him.

“You paint the face—pardon!—the portrait?”

“I have done both face and figure from Chinese models. But it was generally symbolical.”

“I have a reason for asking, Miss Courtney. My portrait has never been painted. My aunt, the queen-mother, has had her portrait done by an American woman-painter. She is pleased with it. She has also set a precedent. I may now follow her example.”

“You mean——”

She had lost her self-control. She was almost gasping.

“I mean I shall be in Washington for some little time, and I should like you to paint my portrait, Miss Courtney.”

Chapter II.

The Sleeping Serpent With the Strangling Tail.

The half-light of a drizzling afternoon did little to light up a private cabinet in the Japanese legation where two men sat with the passive calm of the Oriental belying their inward tumult. One was Count Ito Ugichi, special envoy of the mikado to where he willed; the other, whom his countrymen called “Gray Fox”—keen, resourceful, unscrupulous; most dangerous for his original brain. He was in a heavy silk kimono, this Gray Fox; his feet slippered—the count frock-coated, gray-trousered, nursing a walking-stick with gloved hands. Matters of moment had been discussed, plans made, details arranged. They lingered over personalities, speaking in their own language.

“To us, already in debt many hundred million yen, this is no light matter, Ito-san. Our country groans under new taxation, our customs are mortgaged to the English, our internal revenue to the Americans. We have little money, Ito-san.”

“It is to be that we have much when this end is consummated. The treasuries of China—think you, grave one! The stones groan in the Temple of the Son of Heaven; groan under much weight of gold. The darkness alone greets the seven thousand eyes of Buddha. The door of the Double-Dragon is closed. Think you—what wealth, son of the Samurai——”

The other's beady eyes shone greedily out of their red rims.

“Think, too, of taotais and viceroys to be sweated out of ill-gotten gains; of lamas with treasure hid in their monasteries. Kwannon and Shaka shall take for their own the treasure of these heretical Shintos. And Nippon shall play nakodo” (middle man).

He grinned. But so long had he made this grin meaningless, that when he would have had it significant, he failed. Too long had he worn the mask for mobility to visit his countenance.

“Think!”

The other man combed his thin point of gray beard with talonlike fingers. His smile was a purely speculative one.

“Almost am I convinced, Ito-san. You make honorable promises!”

Ito Ugichi made a wry face. “Too long have I listened to these Western barbarians,” he said. “They have another word for what we would do. 'Honorable' to them—that is different!”

“The Ugichi hath fear of the future?” Gray Fox smiled.

“There are eels that sting as serpents. There are serpents that much resemble eels. I know these Westerners better than the esteemed father's son! At times I have fear of them. Then I say: What chance have they? We, the subtle, the wise of many generations, may outgeneral them at every point. Yet there is a subtlety of eternal innocence; a well-spring fit for drowning in the clear truth. Fuji! there is a certain muddiness in my metaphors which the well-spring might do well in lacking. You grasp me, Gray Fox?”

Quite inscrutable the other, with his wisely smiling face. His benevolent hypocrisy was as much a mask as Ito's meaningless grin.

“Fear!” He stroked the beard-point thoughtfully. “We do not fear what we understand, Ugichi. Had these Westerners remained always innocent they might be more dangerous. Perforce now they add the semblance of cunning which only old races may have. In believing their acuteness, they are delivered into the hand of Nippon. A holy innocent may not easily be gulled. A man wise in his own egotism is but the prey of the truly wise. Kwannon preserve thy intellect among these muddled metaphysics! The deed for the word, good Ugichi!”

Ugichi fondled the cane. “I fear them sometimes—not often. As a nation, never, but individuals—a difference there, gnawing Gray Fox! It is no fault of these Americans that, as a country, they are stupid. The fault is otherwise.” He paused. “They have the wrong men at the head of things.”

Gray Fox looked triumphant. “My theory, good Ugichi, but rehashed! Spake I not so in Yeddo, several years ago? We had gulled this American nation. As we fought with Russia they cheered and encouraged us; sent for our hospitals money; for our famine sufferers, food.”

He laughed mirthlessly.

“They were pleased to patronize us, O good Ugichi! We of Nippon! Our good friends they! 'The poor little Jap,' said they——” He quoted in English, mimicking: “'The poor little Jap fighting the great bearded Russian.' They are one great gallery, these Americans. Of us they made a hero!”

Both took to laughing now, their glee unrepressed.

“We told them how we loved them! Ah, we loved them nobly, good Ugichi! Nobly! Ha! 'We imitate you,' said we. 'Teach us to be like you. We would sit at the master's feet and learn. We would be the Yankees of the East.' Barbarian fools! That they might teach us aught!”

Into his eyes came a sadness.

“And yet—I would it were not so, Ugichi. My thrice-honored and divinely deceased father—he of the Daimio—he told me much of the old days. A happy people we. Happy in our own islands, with none but our own people, believing most devoutly in our gods, tilling the land; happy—aye, Ugichi, happy. To us had been preached contentment; the pursuit of naught save the spiritual weal; the content of the cot and the palace. Long ago that, my Ugichi.”

He lost the mask; was suddenly quite fierce.

“What cared we for these foreigners with their new machinery, their lights of electricity, their hideous clothes, their false modesty, their guns, and their belching ships! We were happy—happy, my Ugichi.”

There was a wail in his voice.

“Long we resisted them—forbade them entrance to our shores; forbade that they bring to us knowledge of what we did not need, what, knowing, we might desire and strive for. But their all-conquering greed for money drove them on. They forced themselves upon us with roaring sea-monsters of steel and iron; with iron tubes that sent death-hail among us—and then!”

Ugichi clasped his stick firmly, a sudden gleam in his eyes.

“Then the sleeping serpent opened his eyes. The guileful serpent of Nippon! They had trodden upon his tail, and his eyes blinked upon them. He saw their strength, their superior cunning of instruments. A wise serpent! What then?

“'By their own standards they set everything, these barbarians.' So the serpent! 'Long have I pondered over the things of the beyond. That I may further dream, let me preserve my peace by besting them in the things of the world. My lack of mechanics is lack of inclination. As brain to brain—you are fledglings; Western materialists.'

“And so he set himself to learn. And now—now the canker has spread, grown. No longer does he desire contentment. A materialist he—he grasps, this serpent. He would wrap the world in his tail and strangle it. For he hath a very strong, supple tail, O Ugichi.”

Gray Fox fell back, exhausted. He coughed. Ugichi patted his back.

“Yes,” he said, with a certain ferocity, “they brought it upon themselves, these barbarians. They awakened the serpent. He cannot sleep again—not again. He must own all or be scotched—this great serpent of ours. For our contentment is gone; no longer do we believe in our gods; no longer care for aught save conquest——”

Both lost the sadness of eyes—became expressionless again. Gray Fox spoke bruskly.

“And when we have put Prince Chu'un on the throne of China, made him the thirteenth emperor, removed Kwang-Hsu of the 'Great Purity,' and his aunt, 'She of the Western Palace'; when Japanese rifles in the hands of Chinese rebels make echoes through the red-walled city—do we not chance aught? Eh, there, my Ugichi? How then of Chu'un? Fine promises are the prerogative of princes of the succession. How then?”

“With a Nipponese army within the gates? A question unworthy of Gray Fox. Of Prince Chu'un fear nothing. Upon me he leans entirely in this matter. He would be emperor. Tze-Hsi would have the child of Kwang-Hsu and Lu-Keng the future son of heaven—and Tze-Hsi rules China. Well are her palace doors marked 'Sho' (longevity). She would live forever, this barren, sharp-toothed she-wolf. And succession for Chu'un comes not while Tze-Hsi lives. China sweats under oppression and the inroads of the foreigners. They curse the emperor secretly as a babe in the hands of the unbeloved dowager. We of Nippon have given them strength and belief in the yellow man. Before they had thought the white race invincible. Now with the White Bear fleeing to his Siberian steppes—the Great Fear is gone. Chu'un, with Nippon at his back, would be hailed with 'Banzais'—but of this discussion what use? Fate has willed. It is the emperor's desire——”

They bowed their heads. Feudality is no dead thing with the Japanese. They had spoken of their ruler.

Ugichi picked up his silk hat, smoothed the nap, and prepared himself to go. “There is but one obstacle; one whom I fear. Not that he will not aid in the plot, for it is to his interest that Chu'un be emperor; for of him Chu'un hath made a companion, a sharer of secrets, an adviser in military law, and other affairs. Black-avised this fellow, and secret in his ways. Some frowning storm-god of Fuji might have fashioned his face.”

“The American aide-de-camp?”

“He is the man.”

“And you fear him?”

“Because of his great secretness. He holds his tongue well, the Black Wrenne. Of monumental aid to me in my share in the details, for he hath a cunning mind and a great understanding of men. Of conscience—little. No hypocrite, in verity, but his strength and reserve make me fear him. It would appear that he deems a certain amount of subtlety enough for the gaze of others than himself, chuckling meanwhile that they believe it his all. But of him I have no present fear; only later when Chu'un be emperor—— Now he is quite occupied——”

“Another scheme?”

“The painter of portraits. The Spirit of the Cherry-Blossoms—she of pink cheeks and ruddy hair. She paints the portrait of the prince, but her eyes are for Black Wrenne. And when a woman engrosseth a man, plots and counterplots find him not too eager for them.”

He flourished his hat. Gray Fox arose and put his talonlike hands on the other's shoulders. His rodentlike eyes searched those of his subordinate.

“I have heard tales of the woman with the ruddy hair. Kwannon hath many eyes. It is said that the Count Ito Ugichi is seen often to enter the house where she paints.”

Ugichi dropped his gaze. The talons tightened on his shoulders.

“Remember, it is as you have said: 'When a woman engrosseth a man, plots and counterplots find him not too eager for them.' Be careful! An infatuation with a Western woman is death, Ugichi. We cannot understand them, we of the Orient. There have been among us men who have striven for them. When we desire our own women, we buy them of their parents in proper, discreet fashion. With them is no perturbation of mind; only pandering to our bodily cravings. These Western women have a fashion of setting brain alight, of destroying subtlety, of making of man abject mental slaves while the craze lasts—so beware, Ugichi!”

The count met his gaze, but quickly withdrew his eyes. “To me—why this——” He was not speaking confidently. From this keen Gray Fox even the mind seemed an unsafe place to hide passions unauthorized.

“Remember—you belong to the son of heaven. Forgetting, you may achieve no merit for Ito Ugichi.”

Chapter III.

Black Wrenne Bows to Brown Bess.

Prince Chu'un's portrait was finished. Bess stood off and observed it with critical eye. It was not as good as she expected to do five years hence; but the best that her present power could compass.

It stood, propped against the chair on the model's platform in her Washington studio, which overlooked Lafayette Park. Through the bay windows of the old mansion one caught a glimpse of the White House across the way, and the façade of the State, War, and Navy Building. The house had once been occupied by a prominent Washington family; afterward it had been the abode of successive cabinet ministers. When the tide of fashion swept up Connecticut Avenue way, the lower floor had been let as offices for a branch of the Federal judiciary; while the upper floors had been converted into studios. Bess had the spacious attic, which had once been the family store-room. It possessed the facilities of a good north light and a splendid view. There were stairs to climb; but that was nothing to a young, healthy woman like Bess.

She addressed the Chinese who stood gazing at her work—the same Chinese who, five years before, had been taken to her home in Frank Emory's sleigh. At first sight he might have been mistaken for a Japanese—cue gone, hair clipped close to his head, wearing a lounge-suit of brown tweeds. He had deliberately sacrificed the cue—by his action tactily acknowledging that he did not intend to return to his native land.

“Well, Lee, what do you think of it?”

It was his first sight of the picture. He had come over from Baltimore only that day to see his pupil's work before its delivery to the Chinese prince. Bess had told him much concerning the portrait, going to and fro between Baltimore and Washington almost every day.

He answered slowly and in excellent English:

“The hand—here——!” He pointed. “There is too much of it—it attracts the eye from the face by being so conspicuous. You have put into the hand much character—the character of the man—and to it first people will look. This fold of the inner robe is in too sharp a contrast to the curve of the ankle——”

He shrugged his shoulders, and, reaching over, redraped the picture.

“Well?” Bess had disappointment in her tone.

He came to her, smiling softly, and took both her hands in his.

“It is because I fear to make you satisfied that I am lacking in praise, plum-blossom!”

“Then it is good—oh, Lee!”

“It is good, little flower of my heart. But better things you shall yet do. Save the two defects I have mentioned, there are no faults to find. And now I go back!”

He picked up his brown bowler hat and gloves.

“I have no wish to meet the brother of the son of heaven. Nor his American soldier. All things Chinese I have left behind me, plum-blossom. I would not be reminded.”

They shook hands.

“Lee!”—with sudden alarm—“you are not looking well. You have been working too hard, Lee. You are not well.”

He smiled. “No? You have noticed it?”

He had the head of a Confucius, the puny body of a lama. There was much to distinguish him in feature—the lofty forehead, bulging outward; the high cheek-bones; the face curving to a point. His eyes were those of the thinker, dreamer, and deep hater. The face was thin and very much wrinkled; its yellow skin drawn tightly over little flesh. There were black rings about his eyes; a certain flaccidity of the lips.

“Let me tell you, plum-blossom, I am as well as I may hope. It is the heart.” He put his hand to his side. “I had not expected to live as long as I have, little flower of my heart. For years I have been expecting the messenger of the goal. But——”

“Lee!” She shook him sharply. There was moisture in her eyes. “Lee, don't talk like that!”

His face warmed. “You care, little one? You have always cared—for poor Lee. But it is best to be prepared. At any moment it may come—click! And then to the graves of my ancestors—the last of my line! It is true, plum-blossom.”

He bowed, sweeping his hat close to the floor. “The gods guide you!” Then was gone.

The girl went to the window and watched him as he emerged from the house and struck through Lafayette Park on his way to the Pennsylvania cars. He walked feebly, a bent-over, shrunken little figure; and she wiped away tears from her eyes as she watched him. She owed much to this Chinese—her philosophy, her training in Oriental art, her broad outlook on life. Then, too, he had recruited the family finances in his inconspicuous way; making of their gardens a revenue. She sank into the window-seat.

“Poor old Lee!”

That was what he had chosen to be called—“Lee.” She knew that was but the English equivalent of “Li,” and but one of three names. When necessity had compelled another name, he chose that of “Gordon.”

“He was a great general, that Gordon,” Lee had said. “I have seen what he did with our soldiers.”

Gordon Lee! And that was all she knew of her Chinese mentor. She arose, went to her portfolio, and took out a recent sketch of “Gordon Lee.” She had taken the face and pose from an unconscious sitting, when he imagined her engaged on another picture; but had provided the cue, the mandarin's coat and hat, and the fan from her own imagination. Thus she imagined Lee must have looked in his native country. She pondered over it, thinking of improvements, her red lips pursed up, her pretty brows in a frown, her head bent over, so that the sun-beams made an aureole of her hair. One pink finger was pointing accusingly at certain technical defects.

Quite suddenly two strong hands on her shoulders turned her completely around, to look into the eyes of Hamilton Wrenne. She surveyed him with outward coolness. His top hat and stick had clattered to the floor as he seized her; and she noted that his morning coat was smartly cut, his white silk Ascot well tied, a flawless ruby in Chinese gold holding it together.

“Well, Black Wrenne?”

“Well, Brown Bess?”

“It is my right to ask the question,” she informed him. “You enter my studio without knocking; you take me rudely by the shoulders——”

“Not rudely—tenderly!”

“If that is tenderness, I shouldn't like to feel your savage mood. However, to proceed. You hold me in a grip which will leave two red marks on my shoulders that will show when I attend the Mason-Carrs' dinner to-night.”

He released her. She rubbed her shoulders with solicitude.

“Thank you. And then you have the presumption to say 'Well'?”

“The door was wide open. You made a prettier picture than you have ever painted.”

“Thanks for the subtle appreciation of my work!”

“Hang it! you know what I mean.”

“I thought I did. When you took me by the shoulders I imagined you were going to kiss me.”

He took a step backward.

“Well, so I did intend!” he said, goaded.

“I hate a man who merely threatens——”

He came toward her, but she eluded him.

“Hang it, Bess! you're the most tantalizing creature alive.”

“Why? Because I refuse to be the plaything of Hamilton Wrenne, Colonel, I. C. A. and aide-de-camp to his imperial highness, Prince Chu'un; mandarin of the second degree, and Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society; not to mention Don Juan in general to any foolish girl who fancies his sinister type of beauty? Hardly so, Black Wrenne!”

With a sudden rush forward, he had her penned in a corner.

“Now,” he said triumphantly, “we shall see, Brown Bess!”

She held up a rosy finger. “I fancy not, Black Wrenne. Listen! We are quite alone in this studio. If I called out, no one would hear me. You are quite safe. You can kiss me as much as you please. But you're taking no chances, Black Wrenne. The game is one-sided. And you're not the sort of man to play that game, are you, Black Wrenne!”

He threw up his hands despairingly.

“Upon my word, Bess, I'm no match for you. I surrender, capitulate, and kiss the chains that embrace me. Please will you give the captive of your wheels some tea?”

She crossed the room, turned down the alcohol-lamp, and mixed the tea and hot water.

“Why aren't you like other girls, Brown Bess?” asked Wrenne, as he accepted the cup from her hands and watched the slice of lemon circle the rim.

“You mean why don't I show the proper thankfulness for your condescension, and be your doll for a week or a month or a day, sir'? Is that it?”

“You make me out a fearfully egotistical ass!”

“No. Simply call your attention to the fact, Hamilton, dear.” She smiled at him captivatingly.

“Now, upon my word!” he said, in indignation. “You call me 'dear,' give me a smile that, luckily, came several centuries too late for St. Anthony; and then pulverize me when I lose control of myself.”

“I'm penancing you for the sake of the other women. But I expect you're not wholly to blame, Black Wrenne. You've found your sinister beauty a good bait for girls who want the excuse of physical attraction. You believe that most of us only want that excuse. I believe you're right. You most certainly are in my case.”

“What!” He nearly dropped his cup.

“Most certainly!” she repeated. “You have a very vivid attraction for me. I've often rather wanted you to kiss me. I feel sure I should like it——”

He put his cup on the tray and stared at her.

“——That's my animal, physical self,” she continued placidly. “That is just Bess Courtney; Brown Bess, who enjoys physical sensations. But, you see, I'm a painter, Black Wrenne. That's not Bess Courtney. That's a part of the universal soul of things given into my keeping; a precious gem that I must keep flawless. The setting must be worthy of the gem—therefore, Black Wrenne, my self-respect. Rather involved, isn't it?”

He got up, came over, and took her hand.

“Bess,” he said, “you're a damn' good sort!”

Crossing the room, he removed the drapery from the picture of the prince. For some time he gazed on it, giving her the flattery of statuelike attention. It was with a deep intake of breath that he turned to her.

“You've opened my eyes, rather, my dear girl. It is indeed presumption that Hamilton Wrenne, a mere foreign mercenary, good for mighty little but a plot or a fight, should seek to make an easy conquest over the girl that painted—that!”

“Thank you,” she said simply. His praise was too genuine to call forth a display of false modesty.

“By the bye,” he said presently, when the consciousness of having betrayed emotion had passed off, “they tell me Ito Ugichi is a frequent visitor here. Not that they need to tell me—I've seen him here often enough myself.”

“He comes quite often,” she acknowledged. “He interests me. He is the best liar I have ever known.”

“Oh!” He laughed with a certain constraint. “You take the words on my tongue. I'm flattered to think there's a certain telepathy between us. Ugichi insults you with his admiration. You know the Japanese idea of women.”

“Is there really much difference between his admiration of me and yours, Black Wrenne?” she asked softly.

The sudden stricture left him flushing with his truth.

“No,” she said, “there isn't. Only a difference between the men. Ugichi is yellow, not prepossessing. Hamilton Wrenne is white, and striking—rather! But both admire me in the same way. Is it the better part of me, the part that finds expression in my work, that you admire? My ideals? My striving for better things? No, Black Wrenne. Only these brown curls; the curves of my figure, the redness of my lips! There lies the admiration. And both of you are unmoral—not immoral, for I know he never had any morals, and I doubt whether you ever had. But, still, there is a difference between you——”

She paused. Wrenne, shamefaced, did not meet her gaze.

“I am afraid of Ugichi. I am not afraid of you!”

“Why?” he asked, in a low tone.

“You, being an Anglo-Saxon, have honor—he, being a Japanese, has not even that!”

Chapter IV.

He of the White Banner.

“This man!”

There was an unusual note in the voice of Prince Chu'un. He held in his hand the sketch of the Chinese who chose to call himself “Gordon Lee.”

It was an hour later. Prince Chu'un had seen the finished portrait; had approved of it without reservation. The secretary of the Chinese legation had presented in payment a check for more than twice the sum for which she would have dared ask. There was also his highness' gift: a belt of topazes, with a jade buckle, beyond price. Bess Courtney was somewhat dazed.

She would have returned the splendid present; but Hamilton Wrenne, surmising her intention, warned her that way lay imperial displeasure. It was, he assured her, the privilege of royalty to make such gifts as were compatible with their pleasure. Bess, only wanting an excuse to retain the belt, reconsidered.

The legation servants had been brought to the studio for the weighty ceremony that took place; and the official members of the legation stood solemnly by in official robes. The portrait had been placed in a camphor-wood box, lined with the imperial yellow. This box was inclosed in others similarly lined. The boxes were covered with yellow cloth, painted with the Double-Dragon; and, at last, the picture was ready for transmission to Peking, to be viewed by the august eyes of Kwang-Hsu, thirteenth of the Great Purity emperors, and brother of Prince Chu'un.

A private car had been reserved to convey the portrait to San Francisco, in charge of a gentleman of the legation and two attendants—from thence an O. and O. S. S. stateroom would have the honor of its presence to Shanghai—a C. N. C. stateroom to Tien-tsin, and a very special train from that point to Peking, where a cavalcade would receive it and convey it within the environs of the Forbidden City.

But the part Bess bore in the ceremony was over. Those of the Chinese legation had departed. Remained only the prince himself, Hamilton Wrenne, Ito Ugichi, and Bess Courtney's brother Austin, a handsome, dissipated young man, immaculately garbed, with hair too well-groomed, and an inherent weakness and sensuality of mouth and chin.

They had been startled by the sudden exclamation of the prince.

“What man?” asked Bess. She came forward and noted the sketch of her Chinese mentor upon which the prince gazed. His face was bland and placid again; but Bess knew instinctively that it had not been so when the pictured likeness first came under his eye.

She hesitated before replying, remembering Gordon Lee's avoidance of his own people, his refusal to meet even those white men who had been in China long enough to realize how little of it they understood. A chill struck her. She was at fault. She should not have exposed the sketch. She recalled that she had been looking at it when Hamilton Wrenne had pinioned her shoulders on his first entrance some hours before.

“That man!” she said, her self-control regained, her voice without emotion. “Why, he was a model that I used to have. He's dead now—these two years——”

Austin Courtney opened his mouth.

“Why, Bess!” he began. “You——”

Her look silenced him. Ito Ugichi, observing the byplay, grinned in his meaningless way, and rubbed his yellow hands together. It was with a certain chill Bess noted that the interchange of looks had been observed by the Japanese. Prince Chu'un, however, did not seem to note the interruption.

“You remember,” finished Austin, “that we had to pay for his funeral. Out in Loudon Park Cemetery. You liked him.”

She smiled at the idea of Austin paying for anything—also grimly noted his facile mendacity, which had in it the colorature of little things, giving verisimilitude. The prince was apparently convinced.

“Do you know him, your highness?” asked the girl.

Chu'un nodded. “He was master of ceremonies at the court during my uncle's time,” he said. “One of the White Banner families, having rank almost as high as my own—which is the Yellow Banner. He was fond of me, I remember; gave me much of my early Confucianisms. A wise man, and in advance of his time, perhaps. Li-Wung-Kih his name. With my august uncle's death, and the reigning of his son, the Emperor Tung, he exercised much authority, and was unfortunate enough to incur the enmity of my thrice-beloved aunt, Tze-Hsi, the queen-mother. He was accused of witchcraft; of having caused the death of the youthful Emperor Tung, and had a narrow lease of life for a space. Then escaped, none knew whither. But this none forgot—he had been, beside master of ceremonies, master also of the imperial treasures. After his arrest, imprisonment, and flight, his palace was searched for the treasure keys. All were found, and in good order—save one set!—the keys to the temple of the Double-Dragon, where the seven thousand eyes of Buddha look only upon the darkness to this day.”

“But other keys can——” interrupted Austin Courtney.

“No, young brother of the painter. There is one set of keys to the doors of the Double-Dragon; one set of keys which may let the light shine upon the seven thousand eyes of Buddha. In my country there is tradition, young brother of the painter. There is a tradition that these keys were fashioned at the behest of the invisible deity, and given to the son of heaven that he might prove his superiority over mere desire for mastership of the world. For within the temple of the Double-Dragon there is wealth untold—seven thousand diamonds of the purest stones; two thousand that are blue, two thousand that are yellow, three thousand that are white, and each the size of a pigeon's egg.”

His audience gasped. The prince smiled.

“Ha! Your wealthy men appear but ciphers before such astounding value of gems! Perhaps it is better that the keys be lost! Li-Wung-Kih has gone to his ancestors, say you, fair young painter? With his body let the memory of this wealth be buried. Until barbarians——”

He smiled, apologizing.

“I had forgotten. Until foreigners take the Forbidden City wholly for their own, the seven thousand eyes of Buddha are safe behind the door of the Double-Dragon!”

He put the portrait back on the table.

“Come, let us go,” he said to Hamilton Wrenne.

Chapter V.

The Seven Thousand Eyes of Buddha.

Bess did not return to Baltimore that night along with Austin. She had a dinner engagement with the Mason-Carrs, and was to be one of a box-party afterward. For these contingencies she was provided, as there was a tiny room back of her studio that she occupied on such nights. The box-party, having been a wedge between the dinner and the Bachelors' Cotillion at the Willard, it was something close to four o'clock before she retired; and very near to noon before she arose. Several calls and talks regarding mural decorations which people wanted of her occupied the afternoon, and did not leave her free to go to Baltimore until dusk. She took a Roland Park car from Union Station, and arrived at home as Austin was fidgeting over his dinner, quite alone.

The mother, being an invalid, occupied her rooms constantly, and had not been below-stairs for nearly a year, except to be carried out to the family victoria and driven about the park. Some asserted her more hypochondriacal than ill, indicating her stoutness and pasty complexion as evidences of one whose chief trouble is a sedentary life indoors. But Bess had accepted her mother's valuation of her ailment, and did not argue the question.

Going up-stairs, she submitted to a family lecture on the subject of girls who stayed alone in single rooms and disregarded chaperons, which was supplemented by a request for the check which Bess had received for the portrait. The request was denied very gently.

“I owe most of it, mother. I've got to pay my own bills, you know. Besides, if I give it to you, you'll simply have some new-faddish doctor in to call your trouble by some new name.”

The mother wept, and spoke of the difference between the respect shown her and the respect she had shown her mother.

“And,” continued Bess, “what the doctor didn't get would be borrowed by Austin. No, mother, I've got most of the burden of the house on my shoulders as it is. I'm not going to be the victim of Austin's latest fancy in chorus-girls.”

Bess discussed Austin quite frankly. She had no respect for him, looking on him rather as a wayward child to be disciplined. Her mother's infatuation for the brother, however, ran to an antithetical extreme. She was willing to deny herself little luxuries to give the money to Austin.

Bess escaped from the parental displeasure, and went to the children's play-room, where her two little sisters were studying their next day's lessons. The children went to convent school, and Bess paid the bills; also she kept them supplied with clothes and a nursery governess. Otherwise they might have grown up little savages. Their mother hardly saw them one day out of the seven.

She had a box of candy for them, which, delivered, was paid for with many hugs and kisses. Later she rejoined Austin in the dining-room. He had finished his dinner, and was scowling over a cigarette. Bess was rather surprised to see him dining home, as he seldom favored the house with his presence; sleeping at his bachelor apartments in the Savoy, and dining either with men at the clubs, women in private dining-rooms, or as a member of some formal party of people whose names were in the social register.

“You took long enough coming,” he snarled. “Didn't you get my wire?”

“No.”

The servant brought her some soup and went out.

“Oh, you didn't? Well, why don't you stay in your studio without gadding all over town?”

“Drop it, Austin,” she commanded. “What's the matter? More debts? Because I sha'n't pay them, you know. The last money I loaned you went to buy a diamond sunburst for a certain Miss Lola Montmorency—and—well, if my money's going for diamond sunbursts, the sunbursts are going on me—much as I detest diamonds!”

“Oh, indeed! You told mother that, too. A rotten, shabby trick, Bess! You don't hear me knocking you about your affairs.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Your affairs, I said—affaires, if you like that better. For instance, the black-eyed man Wrenne. You'd better drop him, my girl; let me tell you that. He's a bad egg, and——”

The servant returned, and replaced the soup with something more substantial. When she had taken herself off Austin continued:

“I've heard——”

“Austin, you're an awfully poor imitation of a man; honestly you are! But for these small favors I must be thankful. If I hadn't a brother like you, I shouldn't have known half so much about how bad men can be. So I haven't had many illusions shattered.”

“Oh, indeed!”

“Yes, indeed!” she mimicked. “Now, you keep your nasty tongue away from my affairs, Austin Courtney.”

Austin was afraid of his sister in this mood. He covered his fear with sulkiness. Finishing his cigarette, he went to the window and dropped it out, then came back and stood at the girl's elbow.

“What I wanted to tell you,” he said, in a different tone, “was that Lee's skipped out for parts unknown, and taken his luggage with him.”

Instantly she divined. “You told him about what the prince said!” she accused.

He admitted it. “I thought he ought to know.”

She considered.

“Perhaps you're right, Austin. They might have had their suspicions aroused, and sent some one over here to investigate. I didn't like the way that Japanese looked at us when we spoke of the model, either. So Lee's gone! Well——”

She pushed her plate away and rested her head on her hands. The defection of her Chinese mentor meant much to her. His was a place impossible to fill.

“He left a letter and a package for you,” continued Austin. “Here they are.”

He took them from the sideboard and placed them before her. He was a man lacking the reality of honor with curious absoluteness; but he had those superficialities of the idea which had restrained his curiosity as to contents of letter and package.

Bess excused herself and opened the letter. It was written in English, and in a small, carefully formed chirography.

Little Plum-Blossom: Austin has told me of the sight which the Prince has had of my picture. It was most unwise, little Flower of My Heart, that such was seen by him, for I am no longer able to remain near you.

All that His Highness told you holds truth in it. I am He of the White Banner of whom he spoke, the exiled Manchu.

There will be no rest now until they have found me and taken from me the Keys of the Door of the Double-Dragon, But of this they shall have no chance, for I leave in the sandalwood box the keys in your keeping.

Guard them as I pray the Gods guard thee.

Thy, Lee.

“What does he say?”

“That's my business!”

“Oh, indeed!” sneered Austin. “Then, maybe, it'll be my business to tell Prince Chu'un how you lied to him; and also that Lee left a letter and a box for you.”

“You'd hardly do that!”

“Wouldn't I? Well, you keep your eyes on little Austin, and you'll see what he'll do. I'm sick of the way you're treating me, Bess—and—well, I've had enough. What does he say?”

He snatched the letter as he spoke, and read it. She watched him coldly contemptuous, and said nothing when he gave it back, his eyes glowing with anticipation.

“Bess,” he choked, “do you see what this means? Why, he's left us a fortune. The keys to the treasure-house—to the seven thousand eyes of Buddha—the diamonds! Bess, do you realize that he's made us the richest people in the world? That——”

She was unwrapping the package, cutting the string with the pocket-knife Austin had opened and given her.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said.

With the tiny key that had been in closed in the letter she unlocked the carved sandalwood box. Opening it, she found reposing on a tray of yellow satin a short squat key of rusty iron, cut into many notches. The second-tray had a smaller key of copper; the third, diminished in size, was of silver; and the last, and most diminutive, on the bottom tray over the imperial Double-Dragon, a tiny key of gold, carved and twisted into such an utterly fantastic shape that, had they not known it to be a key, they might have speculated incorrectly as to the purpose for which it was intended.

Bess put back the trays and locked the box. Austin was looking at her, stunned.

“We're the richest people in the world,” he said dully.

“Austin!”

“Well?” He roused himself.

“Don't be ridiculous, as I told you once before.”

“I'm not ridiculous,” he said hotly. “We heard the prince say that tradition kept this place from being opened with anything except the official keys. We've got the keys, and, consequently——”

“In the first place,” interrupted Bess, in a very quiet tone, the quietness that Austin feared, “these keys were entrusted to me to guard. Consequently they shall be locked away in my safe-deposit vault at the Mercantile Bank until Lee comes back and asks for them.”

“Wha-a-a-t!” Austin had sprung to his feet.

“In the second place,” she continued without noticing his interruption, “these keys fit doors in the Forbidden City in Peking. People who do not belong to the imperial court are not allowed there. There have been only three or four white people in all history who ever lived in the Forbidden City—and two of them died there!”

“But——”

“In the third place, these diamonds do not belong to us or to any one who finds them. They are not treasure-trove. They are the property of the Emperor of China. Consequently to take them would be stealing—wouldn't it?”

She arose.

“And, fourthly, Austin Courtney, if you say anything to anybody about Lee or about this affair, I shall leave this house for good and all, and let you shift entirely for yourself. Now, good night—don't bother me any more.”

Chapter VI.

The Climax of Conspiring Circumstances.

“You—a thief!” cried the girl.

For more than a month Austin had been haunting her, haggard and gaunteyed. Numberless times he had tried to confide in her, but the words would not out. But at last, thoroughly wretched, he had torn away the veil, exposed the miserable, degrading story.

Two dear old ladies were their maiden aunts. Up to several years before they had conducted a school for little girls; but by an unexpected rise in some inherited real estate they had found themselves the possessors of only a little less than a hundred thousand dollars. On this they retired. Austin had persuaded them to entrust to him the money for investment.

He had speculated with it on his own account—and lost!

The girl was crying softly. She loved them very dearly, Aunt Malvinia and Aunt Kitty. She had always been sure of cake and candy when she went to see them Sundays. They had been in the habit of buying picture-books and keeping them on the library-table just for her to read. They had denied themselves to help her; had paid for her instruction in painting; had—why, she owed everything to those dear old maiden ladies!

There was the little white house, just around the corner from the club; the little white house with the green holland blinds and her great-grand father's picture in the hall—very gallant that grandsire in his uniform as one of George Washington's aides. There was the much-thumbed copy of “Alice in Wonderland” on her own little reading-table, sacred to her use alone, and with the book-mark that Aunt Kitty had embroidered. The paintings of Austin and herself, side by side, in the little reception-room, dusted every day by loving hands, thin, wrinkled, gentle, patrician hands. Dear Aunt Malvinia and Aunt Kitty!

Everybody loved them! It was to their school that all the débutantes had gone until they were old enough for convent or boarding-school. Everybody had been rejoiced that they were now able to live quietly out the autumn of their lives—for there was no winter for such as they, it was too harsh a term. Theirs was the autumn, the golden-brown, kindly autumn. And now——

“You—a thief!”

“Well, well?” Austin demanded fretfully. “What are we going to do—eh? What are we going to do?”

The eyes of brother and sister met; he shrank at the fire gleaming from behind the tear-stained lashes.

“You low beast!” said the girl.

“Well?”

She did not answer him; went, rather, to the studio window overlooking the park, parted the curtains, and stared out across the park. Again her sorrow overcame her, and she fell among the cushions of the bay windows, sobbing, choking out her grief.

Austin came nearer.

“Now, now!” he soothed.

“I hate you. Go away.”

“You've got to face it, haven't you?” he asked doggedly. “And how? You can't raise more than a few thousand at the most. I can't raise a rotten penny. Ever since they made me resign at the bank I've been on my uppers, and you know it. I thought I could make good—Bess, I was going to give them half the profits—it would have been a good thing for them, too. And it looked easy, so damned easy; I stood to make fifty per cent. on the investment. I'd have paid my debts and had a goodish lot left. It was a——”

“If I'd only known!” she said, in a low, strained voice. “If I'd only known! But I never dreamed of your having it—never dreamed of it. I thought they had it in bank; safe in bank.”

“They did—drawing a miserable three and a half per cent. I got 'em to get it out and——”

She sat up and faced him. Her tone was vicious.

“I wish you were dead, Austin Courtney; quite dead, quite dead.”

He laughed recklessly.

“You've got a good chance of your wish coming true when this comes out—no mistake there!”

“It mustn't come out—mustn't. It must be paid back. I suppose you understand that, Austin. I can go on giving them enough to make them think the interest's being drawn. After that——”

“Well—what?” he demanded. “That's all in your eye, you know. How are you going to pay it back? Art's no money-maker. If you make six thousand a year you're doing well—and we need all of that.”

“We?” Much to sting him in that tone.

“Why, you little——” But he only said that much, for the light in her eyes frightened him. He averted his gaze, and there was a silence for a time almost interminable to both of them; then he spoke suddenly:

“There is a way!”

She waited for him to explain.

“How about the keys that Lee left? A handful of those diamonds would pay the whole hundred thousand—and a hanged sight more! Not many—not enough to be missed—just a handful, Bess. Why, what good are they doing anybody where they are? And they'd never be missed.”

“No,” she said; and sat silent. He became angry, and mocked her.

“You're afraid! Sunday-school scruples say it's wrong—wrong to take something that nobody has any use for, to keep a whole family from disgrace, to keep me from shooting myself, to keep your aunts out of the poorhouse!”

She bit her lip and breathed heavily. This was her brother speaking, her brother!

He went on, not realizing his peril. “You'd rather see our Baltimore friends take up a collection to keep the old tabbies out of the poorhouse, would you? Oh, yes, I dare say you would. That's better of you—why, you devil!”

For, with a sudden swing of her arm she had struck him squarely in the mouth with clenched hand. He almost fell. Afraid to face her, he covered his face with his hands.

“Don't, Bess!”

The angry crimson in her cheeks faded out into whiteness. She paused, her fingers relaxed.

“No, I won't!”

It was that very quiet tone that Austin had heard before and which showed him the naked unmanliness of himself.

“No, I won't touch so poor a thing as you, Austin Courtney! A thing that steals from helpless old women and foists its burden on another woman. Women! They've been very good to you, haven't they, Austin? They like the way you smile at them, the way your hair waves! They like you, don't they, Austin'? Men don't, do they? Because men know men; and you aren't a man. No, only a thing that finds women useful—and a thief! And you want me to be a thief, too—to save you!”

“Bess!”

“Yes, that's the naked truth, isn't it? You want me to save you! Do you care what becomes of Aunt Malvinia and Aunt Kitty? Not the tiniest little bit, Austin, Courtney. No! That's the lever to work me with. Because you know how I care for them, how terribly fond I've always been of them. So you try to use that to save yourself—and—you've a good conception of women's weaknesses. For I would steal those jewels for Aunt Kitty and Aunt Malvinia.”

Her last words dissipated, to his mind, all the contumely. He had won. She would do it.

“You—you will?” he stammered.

“I said I would,” she returned quietly. “But there's no way—no possible way. The jewels are in the Forbidden City. How am I—to——”

He interrupted, eagerly suggesting.

“Split it with Wrenne. He's not the kind to turn down a proposition like that! He's going back to Peking. He's got the run of the Forbidden City. You give him the key and get him to do it for you; and let him take his share!”

“Impossible!” burst from her.

“Why?”

She was at a loss to fitly answer him. The idea advanced represented surely the sensible thing to do. She had no reason to believe from what she knew of the gentleman adventurer that he would do anything save eagerly accept such a chance for wealth. His casque of reputation bore no stainless white plume. He was plotter, intriguer, hired mercenary. As a boy dismissed from the service of his own country for evil habits, he had seethed to carry out the future prophesied for him. Why not, then?

She reasoned this very thoroughly; but still she repeated her negative when Austin would have convinced her.

“You want him to think you're a little tin saint, eh?”

Rightly had she named Austin's influence. He had little brain, less reasoning power, no moral standards; but a keen intuition where the other sex was concerned stood him in lieu of the first two lacks and abetted the last. Bess tried to disguise her angry, labored breathing by holding her breath; and she dared not risk speaking at all.

Until Austin had made his comment, she had not known herself. But it was truth. She did covet this man's belief in her goodness, or, rather, her striving after the better things. She liked to believe that she was an influence for better in his life. It was quite plain to her that if he became her copartner in the scheme to take the diamonds there would come the shattering of the standards she had set for him to measure her by.

Austin continued, with an angry sneer:

“That's your style. Get a goody-goody boy and you try to make him bad—look at Tommy Worthington that you used to call prude because he thought it a sin to bet on races and be a game 'un. Then you get hold of this chap who is an out-and-out rake and tell him how wicked he is, and——”

“That's enough!” she said, rising. “Quite enough. You'd better go down to the station and take the train home. I sha'n't be over to-night. I'll stay here and try to think this out, somehow, then——”

She stopped. Some one was coming up the stairs, two at a step. She waited until she heard the knock on the door.

“Hello, Bess! In?”

“There's Wrenne now!” said Austin, in an excited whisper. “Let me stay and arrange the whole thing right now.”

But she had been abruptly reminded of another reason she had forgotten. The keys that she held had been entrusted to her by Gordon Lee. She had no ownership in them; they were not even hers by right of the person who had stolen them.

“Austin, I can't,” she said, in a low tone. “I'd forgotten about Lee, too. He trusted me with the keys. I can't go back on him. It's off, Austin, all off——”

He flung out a furious curse.

“Heavens, how wicked!” remarked the man on the other side of the door politely. “Want any assistance, Bess?”

“Come in, Colonel Wrenne.”

They heard him open the door; and heard the clatter of his stick and hat on a side-table. It was too dark to more than vaguely distinguish his form.

“Who's here? Oh, you—Courtney! I thought I recognized your style in that remark I caught.”

“Look here, Wrenne,” said Austin shortly, “you're not personal supervisor of my manners, you know. Nor are you in any way entitled to call me down as often as you do. I want you to remember that!”

Wrenne answered him coolly:

“You can be as boorish as you like to other people—and to me. I don't mind! But it strikes me you aren't sufficiently impressed with the fact that you are pretty much of a lucky dog to have Bess for a sister. Therefore——”

Bess interfered. “The discussion isn't in very good taste,” she said coldly.

“You're right, it isn't. But I wasn't harking back to old things. Something's happened to-day—something that gives you somewhat of a laurel wreath—did you know that, Bess?”

“No. What is it?” She was not greatly interested.

“I don't know that I should forestall the prince. You see, he's coming here in a few minutes to tell you himself. So when he does you want to make him. believe you haven't heard it before. But I wanted to be the first person to bring you the news!”

Now she was aware that the matter was of importance. But her head was too full of the other affair to give her a clue to his meaning.

“Your painting arrived in Peking a few days ago. The emperor inspected it yesterday, and immediately wired to the prince to bring you back to China with us to paint his portrait! Now, what do you say to that? To paint the portrait of his imperial majesty, Kwang-Hsu!”

It was fortunate for her that it was dark. As it was, he did not see her face nor her gestures, nor the greedy eyes of Austin Courtney lighting up.

“I—I can't accept,” she said presently.

“Can't accept!” shouted Austin. “Can't——”

Wrenne broke in.

“My dear girl,” he soothed, “that's foolish. Chu'un and I are returning to China next week. We have a special train across country, and a special section of a liner reserved for us. You will have every convenience and will be looked after absolutely. Think what it means! You'll have the run of the Forbidden City. You'll paint the emperor's portrait, get an inside view into a life that will be invaluable to you in your work—and, besides, I want you to come.”

She knew that he did. She did not tell him that was one of her reasons for refusing. The other was Gordon Lee's trust in her. A third might have been found in the fact that she could not accept the hospitality of those from whom she intended to steal.

“Of course you'll accept,” Wrenne went on. “Now, if you will pardon me, I'll go out into the hall and telephone the Willard. I want you to dine with me to-night and talk arrangements over. I dare say the prince will be here in a moment or so.”

He left brother and sister alone again. Austin gripped her arm.

“Think of the chance! Think of it! The way's wide open. You don't have to call on Wrenne. You can do the trick yourself—yourself. Think of it! And you're refusing! You don't mean it, Bess, you don't mean it. Do you want to see Aunt Malvinia and Aunt Kitty——”

“That's enough!”

“Well, it isn't enough,” he continued furiously. “Not enough for me, at any rate. I'll see whether you——”

“I can't do it, Austin,” she said.

Having regained her composure in all seemingness, she switched on the electric lights which glowed out of Bohemian glass vases on mantels and filigreed lamps swung from the ceiling. The glow fell warmly on rugs and carved furniture, on the walls covered with pictures, framed and otherwise, sketches in inks, studies in water-colors, a few small oils. Looking down from his place by the window, Austin saw a carriage draw up before the curb of the house. A robed figure got out, followed by several others.

“Here comes the prince” he said, with savage intensity. “You'll be sorry every day of your life after this if you turn this thing down.”

They waited in silence for the prince's rap. When it came, Bess opened the door for him, greeting him and the Japanese, Ito Ugichi, who followed with several of the legation attaches whom Bess knew only slightly—gravely smiling Chinese with intensely indifferent countenances.

She asked the prince and his companions to have tea. He refused, with formal politeness.

“This—it is official, Miss Portrait-Painter,” he said. “Wung-Han, will you give to the young lady the scroll you have prepared?”

One of the legation attachés handed her a formal-looking roll of parchment from which dangled several seals. For all the solemnity of the occasion and the issues involved, her sense of the ludicrous harked forward a simile of her childhood. Wung-Han marvelously resembled the Frog Footman.

Following the delivery, the attaché indulged in the peroration prepared for the occasion, a seemingly unending affair, which brought in all the titles, appellations, and similes adverting to his imperial majesty. Prince Chu'un's explanation, which followed in English, summed the matter up much as Hamilton Wrenne had done.

The emperor was pleased with Prince Chu'un's portrait. He wished the same hand to paint one of himself. He tendered to the painter the freedom of the sacred city, and would have a palace put aside for her special use. The remuneration was to be whatever she desired, her expenses were to be paid, and, in conclusion, the emperor wished her long life and many male sons.

All in a daze, she thanked the prince, trying to lead up in some way to a refusal. She knew she must refuse; but, somehow, the words stuck in. her throat. She looked dully across to where Austin glowered at her.

The silence that ensued was broken by the shrill whistling of some popular street song on the part of some one ascending the stairs. The whistling came to a close when the whistler knocked sharply on the door.

“Come in!”

A boy in the blue of the Postal Telegraph stopped on the threshold, gazing at the various dignitaries in no evident embarrassment.

“Gee!” he said.

Bess looked at him. “Well, little boy?”

“You Miss 'Lizabeth Courtney?”

She nodded. He came across to her with a queer side-step of a gait, and gave her a telegram. She signed for it, and, excusing herself to those present, broke it open.

Mayanalaine, Bermudas,
The seventh.

Miss Elizabeth Courtney,
Washington City, U. S. A.

Chinese known as G. Lee died here to-day, leaving unofficial will bequeathing a thousand dollars and other properties to you. Wire instructions.

K. L. Hayden,
Vice-Consul, U. S.

She put up one hand to loosen the ruching at her neck. The room seemed hot, she was gasping for air.

“The window, Austin,” she choked.

It was a genuinely alarmed Austin who allowed the air to come through the room. The girl sat down and folded the telegram with trembling hands, putting it, for security, in her belt.

“Any answer, lady?”

She shook her head, and the Postal Telegraph boy went out. He picked up the strain of his song where he had left it when he entered, and the assembled company heard it until he slammed the door below; even then the echo of it floated up from the street through the open window.

Gordon Lee was dead! He had left everything to her—including the keys to the doors of the Double-Dragon. It seemed that circumstances were conspiring to make of her a thief. She had no excuse now, none! Each one had been swept away by the conspiring circumstances!

“Little Miss Portrait-Painter,” said Prince Chu'un, “you are very ill—we do not trouble you more. We go.”

He made a sign to his companions. They moved toward the door. But it was opened for them from the outside, and Hamilton Wrenne entered. He saluted the prince gravely, and turned to Bess.

“Well—the prince has told you?”

She nodded. Somewhat taken aback by her appearance, he came forward and put a hand solicitously on her shoulder.

She looked up. The prince was smiling in kindly fashion, but there was a certain amount of expectancy in his glance. Austin was glowering at her. Black Wrenne was tender.

“So you're going with us, Bess?”

The girl got up and crossed the floor to where the prince stood. She bowed her head and made a motion of carrying Chu'un's long, clawlike hand to her lips.

Turning, she looked at Wrenne.

“Yes,” she said.

BOOK TWO.

Chapter I.

An Audience With the Son of Heaven.

Prince Chu'un and his escort had entered the imperial city the night before, leaving Bess at the American legation in the Tartar city. It was arranged that she should have her audience in the morning.

The American legation held forth in a former Chinese temple, just under the red walls of the imperial city, named “forbidden” by the foreigners. The official green chair that came for Bess had, therefore, not far to be carried by the palanquin-bearers, sturdy coolies in the trappings of imperial servants. Before the chair went soldiers of the Palace Guard, driving the staring natives out of the way; on either side of the chair were more of the military to prevent the lower orders from crowding the chair; and behind marched yet more for the same purpose.

Bess did not fancy the Tartar city. It was picturesque, but very dirty and smelly. Water, long stagnant, lay in broken places of the causeway, and heaps of refuse cried aloud to heaven. She found her relief in inspecting the lacquered fronts of the shops and the red signs and pennants which swung with the wind, advertising in up-and-down ideographs the merits of various brands of edibles. But this was all much of a sameness; and she breathed a sigh of relief when they reached one of the great gates in the wall surrounding the imperial city.

The officer of the guard cried, gutturally, to the guardians of the gate, and it swung open. Bess had a little shiver of apprehension She wished suddenly for the presence of Hamilton Wrenne. She remembered that she was entirely alone and about to go within the mysterious city of which she had heard so many gruesome tales. The thought of why she had come suddenly chilled her.

The palanquin had passed over the stone bridge of the canal while she was in the grip of her terror. Looking from the windows, she saw the battlements, turrets, and moat of the Winter Palace, its walls, once red, now softened to a pale cherry hue. Hamilton Wrenne had described the palace so often to her, en route, that she could not fail to recognize it.

The raised road over which she was being carried was a picture of animated color, with its official chairs of green, bedizened carts, and splendidly trapped horses. One must go gaily attired into the imperial city; and all were obedient. Here Greater China was represented; the melancholy, mustached Tartars, the apparently noseless Mongols, fur-dressed and leather-booted, the nobles among them riding on gaudily hung camels, the yellow-gowned lamas from the temples, the Cantonese striving to make up in color for what they lacked in stature, the strapping Manchus, seldom short of six feet, striding majestically as though conscious of the fact that their dynasty ruled. Here one had attachés of the Foreign Office and the yamen, taotais, and viceroys come to “save their faces”; officers of the army riding white horses—all Chinese these officers with two exceptions, a rather large—statured Japanese, who passed, talking with a fresh-faced young Englishman who looked as though he might have been a Sandhurst boy.

And now the great gate of the palace itself!

Bess was not prepared for the intricate array of winding passages, high walls, heavy gates, and huge, iron-spiked doors through which they passed after entering the palace gates. She reflected, with a shudder, on the impossibility of Bess Courtney, stranger, finding her way out of the palace without assistance. More keenly than ever she regretted her resolve. Her face was very white, her lips pale. To embark on such a quest in a country where the Chinese are much mocked and little feared was a different thing from assuming nonchalance as to the same purpose when the mystery, secrecy, and strength of the Ming dynasty was made manifest to her.

Her green chair had been changed for a red one, after entering the great gate, and in this she was carried through a labyrinth of white, paved courts, until she came to a very central one, where a number of cedar-trees sheltered the stones from the heat of the morning sun, and where beautiful shrubs, plants, and flowers almost intoxicated her with their perfume. She found that her chair had been lowered to the ground. She stepped out.

A number of palace eunuchs in embroidered robes of office were bowing to her. Three of them preceded her, making signs that she was to follow. The others took up the rear. The plate-glass doors of the palace, resplendent with a huge character enameled in red and indicating longevity, swung back without noise. She entered, and found herself in the throne-room.

It was a long hall, paved with blocks of black marble, having red walls and a dome-shaped roof, that glinted gold in the morning sunlight. In the center of the south side were the great doors through which she had entered, direct ly opposite a red-lacquered throne, approached by five steps of varying widths. Near the throne were gathered the ladies of the court, splendid in their gold-embroidered costumes, with gems on their capes and flowers in their hair. As the eunuch stood by the door calling out in low gutturals, several of these court ladies approached Bess, and one of them spoke to her, quite prettily, in English.

“You are the portrait-painter. I am Na-Leng. My father was minister to your country at one time——”

She spoke a trifle stiltedly, and had the usual difficulty with her r's. Pretty she was not, according to European standards, but Bess, familiar with the Oriental idea, knew that Na-Leng was most greatly desired. She was in a long loose gown of rare satin stuff, painted with bird-and-sky effects, wore a profusion of jewelry and ornaments, and had on satin boots with white kid soles. Bess knew her at once for a Manchu girl and one of high rank.

“I want to be your flend,” said Na-Leng. “You remember me—now I go back. Come. She approaches.”

Some cymbals and flutes sounded the Imperial Hymn, preceding the coming of majesty. The doors were thrown open. Two lines of gorgeously vestured eunuchs walked stiff-legged into the court. In the sudden quietness an open chair was carried to the center of the hall. Another chair followed. It was put down alongside the first. Behind the first chair stood a maid of honor, behind the second was Hamilton Wrenne in the full dress of the Chinese Army.

Their majesties alighted. The dowager empress took the throne-seat, her nephew, the emperor, seating himself on a hassock by her side. Bess surveyed them both with eager eyes.

The much-discussed Tze-Hsi was in a gown of stiff, transparent silk, embroidered with pearls and fastened on one side from neck to hem with jade buttons. About her neck was a rope of pearls having for pendant a large, pale ruby. Her hair was parted in the middle and brought over her brows. The third and fourth finger-nails of either hand were like talons, and were protected by gold guards. She wore no paint, and her skin was fresh, having the appearance of youth. Her eyes had in them a contemptuous kindliness; her small mouth had cruel lines about it.

The emperor looked to be little more than a boy; although Bess knew him to be nearer thirty-five than thirty. He was slim, slight, and short, and had the face of a monk or a priest, the ascetic type. His mouth and chin were not lacking in strenth; but his gaze was aimless, his eyes without concentration. He was simply dressed in a gown of yellow brocade, belted tightly about a waist, the smallness of which, in common with his hands and feet, he was quite proud of. Looking keenly for the signs of weakness she sought, Bess discovered that his forehead, while high, receded as it neared his glossy hair; also that his hands and lips had an odd habit of twitching nervously.

Wrenne acted as interpreter, and Bess was greeted graciously. She formally accepted the offer of the emperor, and was requested to name her preference of abiding-places while she dwelt within the “violet city.”

She trembled before she answered. She knew, from stealthily questioning Wrenne while on shipboard, that the Temple of the Double-Dragon was a small one, erected within the Gardens of the Invisible Deity; knew also that a small pavilion, the Arbor of Buddha's Hand, overlooked the temple and gave access to it through the gardens. Without mentioning specifically the place she wanted, she described the pavilion to Wrenne, who translated her remarks to their majesties. The Arbor of Buddha's Hand occurring to them, the emperor inquired of the head eunuch as to its tenancy, and was answered that it was closed. It was ordered to be opened, refurnished, and heated, being made in all ways ready for the portrait-painter.

The emperor rose. The arbor, he informed Bess, would be ready the next morning. He begged that at that time she take possession of it, and at eleven o'clock be ready for his first sitting. He would come to the Arbor for his sittings, that the Sacred Picture might not be touched unnecessarily by the hands of servants.

The empress arose, also. The audience was ended.

“Go back to the legation,” Wrenne whispered. “I shall see you this afternoon. To-morrow a chair will bring you here and a cart will bring your belongings to-day——”

He was quickly on salute, and stepped behind the chair of the emperor, waiting until the imperial pair had been borne away, then attaching himself to Prince Chu'un, who had sat through out the ceremony on the lower steps of the throne in company with several cousins of the royal house. Bess, recognizing him, thanked him again for his good offices.

The prince smiled, disclaiming, and asked if she cared to inspect the palaces of the imperial city. If so, he would put his servants at her disposal and ask the court ladies to accompany her as escort. But the excitement of the morning was enough for the girl; and she asked that he repeat his offer at some later period.

He went away with Wrenne; and the eunuchs, conducting her to her chair, she was taken to the palace gates, her chair changed again, and carried from out of the imperial city back to the American legation. On arriving at the latter place, her first act was to send the servant assigned to her for brandy; and of this she took more than she had ever permitted herself before. Her nerves in a normal state, she went down to lunch with the American minister's wife and family.

Chapter II.

Captain Komoto is Promised the Golden Kite.

Ito Ugichi and he whom his countrymen called Gray Fox were once again in conference. The room in which they sat might have been the same as the last meeting-place in furnishing and general appearance; but instead of overlooking the yellow Connecticut Avenue cars, whirring motors, and fashionable crowds of Washington's thoroughfare, it looked out on the inner court of the legation in Peking. Gray Fox was again in the costume of his country, his gray kimono embroidered with cranes, his obi-sash blood-colored. His feet in getas were stretched out before him, and he contemplated them without expression.

Ugichi, in the frock coat grown habitual with him outside his native country, was smoking a cigarette and watching Kitsune-san. The Gray One had not spoken since the greetings had passed between them.

“Is thy thesaurus of speech depleted that thou grudgest of its contents to me, Samurai?” asked Ugichi.

Gray Fox looked up.

“I have seen to it that the rifles, the ammunition, and the supplies have been landed,” he said slowly. “Not fifteen miles from Tongku, there is a cave well known to the opium-smugglers, and this holds the wherewithal of rebellion against Kwang-Hsu. For these expenses Nippon is sorely taxed. Thou didst propound to me in Washington a plan by which the seven thousand eyes of Buddha should refund Nippon—and hast thou so replenished the exchequer of the son of heaven?”

“Truly I have not,” answered Ugichi.

“Thou hast not! The servant of the emperor would now have reasons.”

“By Kappa! thou shalt have them, gnawing Gray Fox!” The Count Ugichi showed a spot of color on either sallow cheek-bone; his voice was that of a man wronged. “Think you, now, what I have done. Was it not I who months ago, in Washington, detected the falsity of the portrait-painter's speech when she spoke concerning the picture of the exiled son of the White Banner? Knew I not then that she lied; and did I not discover where lay the Manchu, Li-Wung-Kih, who called himself Gordon Lee? He became imbued with thy cunning, that of the fox, and fled me to the Bermuda Islands; but forth on his trail went Yedo, the agent, with my orders to take from him the keys. Yedo returned. He had killed this Gordon Lee with a subtle poison, had examined his clothing when dead, had searched among his proper ties for the keys of the door of the Double-Dragon. Found he them? No! Kappa (the demon of hell) is in my luck—and then——”

“Then you discovered that the keys were in the possession of the portrait-painter herself. That I remember. Recount not thy own craftiness, Ito-san. Thou art very cunning. Proceed.”

“It is as Gray Fox says. She had the keys, wearing them always about her neck upon a chain that was very strong. In San Francisco did not our cleverest agents brush against her in crowds, provoke small riots, do all that might give a chance for the keys to be snatched. But how fortunate they? One is in their jail, another in their hospital. She hath in Hamilton Wrenne a protector—the black-avised man of the great secretness. Knew I well we should be enemies, Samurai. It is so.”

“What further attempts?”

“As much as any man, even as much as thee, the 'wise and most machinating furu danuki (old fox). On the steamship I had agents among the ship-boys, all of whom attempted and failed. She wears the keys next her skin and over them a close, very tight-fitting jersey high in the neck. Once I had nearly won. By great secrecy and caution that same agent, Yedo, serving as a ship-boy, had entered her cabin late in the night; had with his knife slit open the night-dress that she wore, only to find naught save bare skin—for she wore the jersey not at night, nor the keys about her neck. He searched most secretly among her bags and boxes, finding nothing, and was interrupted in the task by her awakening. Ever afterward a soldier of Prince Chu'un slept outside her door—what chance, then?”

“Bribery!”

“'Twas tried, and failed. To his master Prince Chu'un the soldier told the tale, and my Yedo was landed at Honolulu ironed and manacled as a criminal. He is also of the Samurai, this Yedo-san.”

The Gray Fox nodded. “And further?”

“Her room was entered while she slept, in the Astor Hotel, in Shanghai. Again naught was found, naught worn. The keys are no longer in her possession, Gray Fox. She hath given them to this Hamilton Wrenne to keep for her. They have been enclosed in a sealed silver box and this swung upon a chain again—for this was done while she waited in a silversmith's in Shanghai and while a guard of soldiers, ordered by the taotai as her escort, waited without the shop. The sealed silver box she gave to Black Wrenne. Samurai, we must rid us of this incubus of a Wrenne. His presence is parlous to the cause of the son of heaven. Besides the keys, much power hath he with Chu'un, much too much, Gray Fox.”

“But thou saidst——”

“Said I my power was the greater? Yes, I remember. Kwannon grant I was not in error. Ijin-san (the foreigner) hath me in doubt. Very useful he hath been in my plotting, knowing, as he doth, the strength of all the armies of China, and those liable to defection. But his work is done now. He can help me no more. He was well out of the way.”

Gray Fox meditated. “And with him out of the way, Ugichi, it might be that the keys——”

Count Ito grinned in his meaningless fashion. “If he is then to see the black Omi-angel, why not in the presence of faithful Japanese who might procure from him the keys to the door of the Double:Dragon? Speak I wisely, Gray Fox?”

They eyed one another.

“Wisely, indeed!” said Gray Fox; and fell to meditating again. Presently he raised his eyes.

“It is for the emperor, Ito-san. What is one man that he should stand in the way of the emperor's desire? We have originated this plan to put Chu'un on the throne; have provided the brains, the money, the rifles, the munitions of war—even the men, in part. Knowest thou that between Peking and Tien-tsin there are scattered some five thousand of our race, members of the army of the emperor?”

Ito nodded. “Long since I knew that, Gray Fox. Also do I remember that at Shan-hai-kuan among the allied garrisons there is a full regiment ready to write their names in the Bushi Kanjo—and as thou hast said: Are the time, the money, the men, and the emperor's desire to go for naught because one Black Wrenne opposeth the path? Nay, Samurai! Scruples are well enough for a robber Eta who pilfers on his own account—for him there is the law. For those who act at the emperor's wish there is no question of law.”

“Light of the son of heaven!” murmured Gray Fox.

He reached for a bell-rope, pulling it. A servant answering was told to fetch Captain Komoto, who would be found below. A surmise as to Gray Fox's purpose lightened the eyes of Ito Ugichi; but he said nothing of it, waiting in silence until a Japanese in the blue uniform and patent-leather top-boots of the army entered and saluted.

“You sent for me, honorable ones,” he murmured.

“Komoto, thou knowest a certain Ijin-san holding rank in the army of China—one Wrenne, whom they call the Black!”

Komoto assented.

“He imperils the Welfare of the mikado, Komoto-san!”

Komoto's hand went to his sword-hilt.

“To the enemies of the son of heaven, what, Komoto-san?”

“Let those of the Akuki be speedily delivered to the maw of the Red Dragon!” answered Komoto symbolically.

“Takest thou service under the Red Dragon, Komoto-san? Wilt be his purveyor?”

“For the glory of the emperor—what not?”

“Let the golden kite be writ large upon thy breast, son of the Samurai! Amadi Butsu guide thy steps to paradise.”

Gray Fox discarded the sonorous symbolic syllables, becoming suddenly practical. “Thou hast many men that thou mayest trust, Komoto?”

“All serve the emperor!” answered the captain oracularly.

“It is well. Now it were not difficult to take five of these men and attire them as Chinese coolies; to put false cues upon their heads, and wadded garments upon their persons.”

“It were not difficult, son of the Daimio——”

Gray Fox raised his hand, regarding him sternly. “The days of Daimios are past. There is but one ruler—the emperor! Forgottest thou, Komoto?”

The officer seemed humbled. “I crave pardon, Kitsune-san (Mr. Fox). It were difficult for me to forget, I who was born in a humble shoji very near the palace of thy illustrious father. Again I crave pardon.”

“Offend not again, Captain Komoto. Touching on the matter of the five mock Chinese. You said it were not difficult?”

Komoto bowed.

“Nor would it be difficult if these five mock Chinese met with this Black Wrenne in the purlieus of the Chinese city, whither he goes each night to inspect his soldiers keeping guard upon the walls?”

Komoto bowed again.

“And should accident occur to this Black Wrenne—should he tumble from a wall and be utterly demolished, there could be no harm in opening his garments and finding hung about his neck a silver box on a chain, eh, Komoto-san?”

“There could be no harm, Gray Fox,” echoed the soldier.

“Keep thou and thy five mock Chinese sharp watch, then, for his fall! And when thou hast the silver box bring it to thy unworthy preceptor. For this watchfulness of thine, thy name shall be recorded in the unwritten book of noble deeds. Sayonara.”

The officer hesitated.

“Were it better for the emperor that this Black Wrenne fell from his perch this night or a later one——”

“The emperor liketh ill the song of the black wren. This is a bird of ill favor with him. Shall the emperor's ears be longer offended than his servant may compass?”

“I am ashamed, Gray Fox!”

“No need of shame. That only when one has failed. And should the light shine upon a deed which thou hast committed outside the laws of nations, wouldst say it was in thy emperor's service, Komoto-san?”

The captain drew himself up stiffly.

“Hath not Komoto-san private revenges that he may wreak, son of the Daimio? Hath he not a tongue to cry aloud these satiations of revenge?”

Gray Fox gave him his hand. “Thou shalt yet be read of in the Bushi Kanjo, Komoto-san. Thy very excellent good health. Sayonara!”

“Sayonara, honorable ones.”

He saluted and went out. Gray Fox rubbed his hands. The Count Ito Ugichi grinned in his meaningless way.

Chapter III.

In The Gardens of the Invisible Deity.

The Arbor of Buddha's Hand was so called because within the precincts of its garden grew numbers of trees bearing the fruit which has been given the religious name—fruit much of the same variety as a lemon but more fragrant and shaped in such a way as to vaguely resemble a hand. In the center of the garden was a lotus-covered lake, on the edges of which grew quantities of asters and peonies, also several variations of the orchid family. Cedar-trees flourished there having dwarfed cypresses for companions. From the marble terrace of the pavilion Bess could note the Temple of the Double-Dragon rising above the tops of the cedars, approached by one hundred steps, flanked on four platforms by small outhouses with curving crenellated roofs. The sight was an obsession with her. Many times she found herself leaving her work and drifting to the terrace to gaze at the temple with its lacquered columns and porticos, and the great golden Double-Dragon sprawling across its door.

Behind the temple rose a great wall, ten feet in thickness, gray-pink in hue, and this same wall extended on all four sides of the garden. His majesty gained access to the pavilion through the imperial archway on the south side, and Hamilton Wrenne came through the little door on the north. It was by a special dispensation only that this was allowed, for the Arbor of Buddha's Hand flanked the ladies' precincts of the palaces, to which no male was supposed to come save on ceremonial occasions.

There were five rooms in the pavilion, separated by walls of carven wood, in which were panels of white and blue silk painted with poems and representations of cranes, peacocks, dwarfed trees, and demons. The entire front facing the Double-Dragon Temple was a concatenation of plate-glass windows which might be released and swung outward by pressing ingenious catches. The lower windows were provided with blue silken curtains that rolled into graceful folds.

In the front room Bess had set up her easel and canvas and arranged her painting paraphernalia. Here, also, had been brought one of the great red lacquer thrones on which the emperor sat while posing. Several European chairs had been brought in for Bess' comfort; but she preferred the couch built into the wall, when tired. The second room was her boudoir, the third her sleeping-apartment, the fourth her dining-room, while the fifth was used by the servants as a pantry, the cooking being done in a little outhouse. The pavilion was heated by porcelain stoves and fires built under the floors.

Nearly two weeks had passed since Bess had come to live within the violet city; and during that time she had not ventured forth from beyond the high red walls. Every morning at ten Kwang-Hsu came for a sitting of half an hour, and during the rest of the day she worked over what she had blocked in. Sometimes Na-Leng or some of the ladies of the court came for her and took her on tours of inspection. On several occasions she witnessed performances of the Royal Players; and three times she had lunched with the young empress and her maids of honor. But the days were mostly taken up with work and the visits of Hamilton Wrenne, who came every afternoon through the small gateway at the south.

He came generally at sundown and remained until the Gardens of the Invisible Deity were hung with the black wings of the Night-Dragon under whose protection fluttered the good ancestor spirits, waving their silver lanterns—she recalled the picturesque simile of the Lady Na-Leng, as she sat there this night and watched Wrenne in the starlight.

She had begun to know that his presence was necessary to her, and without his visits she would be like the little nightingale in the silver cage that hung by the windows. The simile called to mind the fact that the little bird's head was drooping, his feathers ruffled. She arose and opened the door of the cage; gladly he fled into the night, and from the near-by branch of a cedar-tree poured out a flood of song.

“Hello!” said Wrenne. “You don't seem to appreciate the value of that little songster, Bess.”

She shook her head. “Oh, yes, I do. But the poor thing was so unhappy when I first got him. I let him out twice a day. He'll always come back. See!”

She stepped on the terrace and whistled softly, cooingly. She, too, was in the starlight now; and it touched her golden-brown hair, seeming to fondle it. The stray curls at ears and brow and neck fluttered in the early night wind, fluttered against that pure, white skin, and brought the tint of wild roses to the cheeks. The nightingale's song ceased; he fluttered uncertainly on his perch, then came flying back and perched on the dainty finger outstretched toward him. The girl stroked its feathers and bent her head over, whispering to it. Instinctively it rubbed its feathers against the soft cheek.

“Coo-ooh,” she breathed to it again. It turned its wise little head, surveying her with attentive eyes, then, released by the motion of her hand, flew away again.

She turned to Wrenne. “You see?”

He saw more than she had intended: the brown eyes soft with the mystery of the thoughts of nightfall, the thoughts that her conscious mind hardly read. There was perfume wafted into his face, perfume he knew to be of the garden; but sweet in the thought that it was no sweeter than she.

“Whispering trees, soft summer breeze,
Moon shining bright from above——”

She had begun to hum the song, hardly remembering the rest of it which dealt with lover's arms and other accessories of a divine night. It was a tribute to the evening that nature had provided; and to the man himself, in that he provided no jarring element.

But he had not forgotten the words of the song, if she had. There was color in his cheeks, too, as he came forward, nearly touching her. She was subtly entrancing, a creature for the evening mists, for rose-gardens and mystic moons; her charm as pervasive as the perfume of springtime, as delusive as a stray moonbeam. She was too daintily ethereal for the workaday world of every-day. Here in the temple-grove on the marble terrace, with the moon and stars silvering the night, and the great, mysterious temple's gold roofs towering beyond the cedar-trees, she was the sprite of the illusion, the key to the picture.

“Bess!”

She was not unconscious of his meaning. But at the time, with the enchantment of the good ancestors' silver lanterns in her eyes, she thought of the one word spoken with the infinite tenderness of a lover only as a part of the beautiful night. Looking up and finding him standing so close to her that she could hear the beating of his heart, she was not afraid, only very glad that her soul was light, that it was a glad world, and that he was there.

She looked, lingering over the picture of him, as he stood very gallant in his close-fitting uniform and boots, with the crucifix-hilted sword catching the light. His cap was off, and the rays ran in and out the waves of his black hair and lighted up those intense eyes below the heavy brows. He was at once sinister, debonair, tender, and masterful; perfectly groomed, clean-limbed, every line of face and form betokening breeding and strength—and his eyes love for her. To her mind came vaguely thoughts of Bayards, Rolands, and Olivers, compelling composites these: commanders, courtiers, cavaliers. Here was such another. It had taken generations to produce the like of that strong, graceful body and handsome head.

“Hamilton!” she breathed.

“Bess, you do, you do love me, don't you, Bess?”

And when he had conquered, a boy again, eager, petulant, winning, awakening also the mother spirit in her. As she lay in his arms she looked up into the shining eyes.

“How can I help it, Black Wrenne?” she said, with a little, helpless laugh, and stroked his hair with gentle fingers. He was hers to love, to mother, to obey; that she might revel in his strange masculine beauty with the thought that it was hers alone.

“And—oh, enough, dear, enough!”

It was a little later when she had freed herself from his arms and caught back her stray curls into prim severity.

“Enough?” he questioned, hurt.

“Enough now, great baby!”

They laughed together, two children for the time.

“And how long have you loved me, Bess, dear?”

“Always, I think,” she answered him. Really she did not know; the thing had always been vague with her, an influence that had grown and grown until it had overwhelmed her in the greatness of it.

“Yes, always, I think; ever since I met you the second time. But before that—I had ideals—such a man as you. I wanted him big”—she was enumerating on her slim fingers, after the fashion of a schoolgirl—“big and brave and with black hair and black eyes. Just like you, Black Wrenne. Always b's, you see: big and brave and black-haired and black-eyed. And then I met you and knew I'd been thinking about you all the time.”

“Did you?” he said, enraptured.

“But, then—then you weren't nice to me, Black Wrenne!”

Where was the woman of the world in this little girl who talked with her mouth pursed up and her eyes upturned to the stars?

“Wasn't I?” he said disgustedly. “What a brute I must have been!”

“Yes, you were,” she said, and she was the woman again as she spoke. “And—and I'll tell you a secret. It only made me love you the more because you were a brute to me, Black Wrenne. That was the woman who adored your strength, who thought it better to have you your own way than no way at all. But the artist in me called for better things from you, wanted you to love me for the better part of me, to bring that better part—there's little enough of it—out into the sunlight and hide the other part in the shadows. But you didn't do that.”

“Don't, Bess,” he pleaded. “I didn't understand then. At first it was the purely physical man's love for the purely physical woman. And I hadn't had the training to make me very scrupulous. But—that day—I saw you—and wanted you a thousand times more. There will always be that of the physical love—that is a part—but besides there is the something you gave me which no other woman did. An utter disregard of self, a desire to do things for you, to make myself spiritually cleaner.”

Suddenly she realized that she had bared her heart for the knife-thrust. She had begun this by speaking of her better part—she had begun it. Why hadn't she been content with the fact that he loved her without dragging in ethics, introspection? While he was trying to make himself better for her sake, she was retrogressing. It became unbearable, the thought that he should ever discover that she had come to Peking to steal—and that was why she had come and what she still must do.

“Bess, I've been a better sort since I met you. For the past two years I've been grimy with plots and counterplots, lies and treachery, false smiles, and knife-thrusts in the back—the machinations of Orientalism. I had one great ambition—to be the power behind the throne For this reason I have cultivated Prince Chu'un, made of him a means to an end. And now the way to my ambition lies open ahead of me, Bess. I can be the real ruler of this country in less than a year—the real ruler of the greatest country on earth, of four hundred million people. Think, Bess! I can be that—through Prince Chu'un. For I am Prince Chu'un in the will. My way is his way—and the. time is at hand.”

The wild-rose had fled from her cheeks, the nightingale was still. Her trembling fingers caught the sleeve of his coat.

“Don't tell me, Hamilton!”

He was strong and big in the moonlight, with his heavy, frowning brows and clean-cut jaws. The fingers trembling on his arm felt the thrill of his hard, vibrant muscles. She was suddenly very much afraid. What would he do when he discovered that he had set up a false idol in her? Would he tear her apart with those strong, brown hands?

“No, maybe I'd better not tell you. Because the path to my ambition is a highway of arson and bloodshed—a shambles of the innocents.”

He caught both her white, trembling hands and kissed their palms.

“Bess!” His voice was suddenly exultant. “I'm going to chuck it all for you, dear—going to chuck it all, d'you understand? Because I want you to feel that you can respect yourself when you love me. You've taught me the way to honesty and straight-dealing, dear—the other is hateful to me now. When you finish your picture, we'll leave Peking together. And then—then, my little wife—eh?”

He was laughing boyishly.

“All mine, all of you. Those glorious eyes, and those beautiful curls, and your rose of a mouth—and the sweet, pure soul of you, Bess, dear!”

She lay in his arms, her face hot, her body trembling; but there was a pall on her brain, and her heart was like lead within her. She had set up for this man an ideal of herself, and he had believed that ideal to be what she represented it, had loved the fictitious Bess and diverted his career for her.

“The road to honesty—to straight-dealing.”

It seemed that the Fengshui demon on the wall panel was grinning at her as he repeated the words. She who had come to Peking to rob—she had taught him that road, she who was not yet a thief only because she had not the courage.

“No, Hamilton,” she moaned; “no. Don't talk of me that way. I'm unworthy of it, Hamilton. It was only because I loved you so much that I wanted to have you believe that. But don't believe that, Hamilton—because some day you'll find out it's not so.”

But he only laughed and stroked the stray curls.

“Don't, dear Black Wrenne. Don't laugh at me. Indeed, it is so. Please keep on loving me no matter what I am—just love me because I'm Bess, just because I'm this girl that you see—for nothing more except that and that I love you very dearly, Black Wrenne.”

“I shall always love you, dear,” he said, and bent his head over her.

“But not the ideal, Hamilton, not that. Just Bess. I'm not the stuff to stand the furnace of idealism. Just clay, dear, and that's all. False images won't stand the test. Don't set one up in me, Black Wrenne.”

The nightingale was singing again. His notes brought the girl to crying very softly. If Black Wrenne should discover what she had come to do, if he should find that, she had stolen like a common thief—would he love her then? Could she dare to hope that he would? Was that fair? When she had dragged him up to a great love with the picture of a woman who did not exist, could she blame him if the love that she had awakened for this mythical ideal turn away repulsed from the woman who was. No, he could not be blamed. Therefore he must never discover. She must do what she had come for: the picture of her two dear aunts was before her eyes. She must do that—and then she would fry to be the sort of woman he imagined her.

“It is because you are what you are that you think so little of yourself,” he said gently.

“No,” she murmured, wiping away the tears. “No, Hamilton, I'm telling you the truth—you don't believe me, thank God! I pray Him that you won't find out!”

There was a fluttering of wings, a feeble chirp, and unconsciously she put out her finger. The nightingale fastened upon it, regarding her with quick movements of his graceful head.

“I'd rather believe the bird than you!”

And his voice was very tender.

Chapter IV.

Assassins Where Should Be Purveyors of the Poor.

The great bell of Kouan-Lo, in the Tachung-sz' tower, was marking the hour with its golden tongue, a mellifluous clangor that had in it more of music than of noise; the air was heavy with the odor of lotos and chu-sha-kih; from the barred palace windows of the violet city came the tinkle of the san-hien (guitar) and the lute, while nearer the gate of the Fung-Hoang a female voice trilled out a song of Kouei to the gilded dragons of the green roof-trees.

It was a very glad world, thought Hamilton Wrenne.

He had come down the causeway unattended, alone, and on foot, reveling in the beauty of the night, intoxicated with the lingering perfume of the girl's presence, and like one in a very beautiful dream, who was loath to wake again.

He answered the salutations of the gate guards mechanically, and bestrode the white horse which his orderly held for him. Touching his mount lightly with his riding-crop, he was off through the Tartar city on his night inspection of the wall-guards.

There was very little thought for his duty to-night. Bess loved him! He said that over many times, humming unconsciously music to fit the words, turning the beauty of the happening and of the night into the blank verse of the lover's litany.

She loved him! He was surprised how little other things mattered; amazed that the hazy future held no fears for him and that he could so readily abandon his cherished projects because they were incompatible with his thoughts of her. Indeed, he was letting them go without regret, finding that he no longer cared for what might detract from her regard for him.

As he told her, he had not been very scrupulous. Since he quitted West Point an embittered youngster deprived of the fulfilment of a dream that had been his since childhood, he had imagined the world a very cold place, where one kept warm only by the fierceness of antagonism to others. His rise in the Chinese service had been one of those curious sequences of circumstance that sometimes occur to Europeans in foreign countries. Assigned to a post far up-country, he had found himself in the center of a rebellion with but a handful of troops to cope with it. Alone, he was powerless. By enlisting in his cause the scattered bands of brigands and outlaws, he had relieved the province from rebellion, and as reward turned over the rebels' property to the rapacious crew who had assisted him. Bravery, lack of scruples, and calculating cunning had brought him to high places. Now, for the love of a girl, he was to climb down again when his hands were closing about the reins of government. He would be an ordinary soldier of fortune again, a penniless married adventurer.

But married to Bess! That was the recompense.

The Manchu orderly Thsang had never before noted his officer in so uncritical a mood. There were several grave defections of duty on the part of the soldiers of the wall that went quite without rebuke. One soldier had forgotten the password, another had taken too much sam-shui and was close to being drunken, another in saluting brought the barrel instead of the stock of his rifle to ground. Thsang did not understand his lack of interest in these things, so apart were they from his drawing of the character of the envoy of the Black Fir, the name given Wrenne by his soldiery to indicate the bird of black plumage which haunts the fir-tree and is all-seeing, writing down in the Book of Fate the misdeeds of the Tsing-jin,^[1] and preparing for them adequate punishment. Wrenne had not risen to his height without having earned the reputation of a disciplinarian utterly devoid of mercy.

Now, inspection over, he stood upon the great walls peering away at the ghostly temples and palaces where the dogs of Fo kept their watch; at the swinging lanterns, the illumined kites, the pagodas, the riot of color, of crenelated roofings, porcelain gargoyles, and lacquered goblins. Below, the tracks of the railroad stretching outside the curve of the walls seemed like the trail of the fire-monster, and the engine itself an unreal dragon puffing, fire into the silver night; the bobbing lights of rickshaws, carts, and pedestrians only the elves and sprites of the marshes making merry in a fairy city of the night; the figures of the soldiers those of giants keeping watch on the enchanted city.

“Hei-song-che-tsoo!” said Thsang, and gently touched his colonel's sleeve, heavy with gold braid. He was addressing him by the name of He of the Black Fir, a nom de guerre which had grown into custom. Wrenne turned, nodding to him impatiently, his eyes wandering back again to the scene spread below him.

Borne faintly upward from the mandarin's garden below the way was the sound of the lute played by a master hand, and the voice of a man singing. Wrenne recognized the words of the sage Lao-tseu.

By beauty of face and ravishing form
Come thoughts of a beautiful soul.
The world is deceived by the outwards of love
But——

“Come,” said Hamilton Wrenne impatiently. Lao-tseu was an old croaker, even though a sage. Why had this pessimistic occupant of the mandarin's garden chosen to disturb his beautiful dream?

Below, he mounted his horse, which shied violently. From the dust of the road arose a black something, that flapped its wings and cawed dismally. Thsang's teeth showed in the half-light.

“An ill omen, illustrious one,” he said. “An ill omen.”

“Not for me,” responded Wrenne, with a laugh that was gay enough to show the counsel of Lao-tseu to be of no effect. “For, look you, Thsang, am I not the envoy of the Black Fir and a bird of raven plumage myself? How know you that the bird is not the soul of my ancestor?”

Thsang made a wry face. “Not so, Black One. For it was an evil bird, accursed by Gotama to feed upon offal and the carcasses of the dead. It is a sign of ill omen—see, it flies straight along our path. Its way means destruction, Hei-song-che-tsoo. Take the road of Kang-ing-pien to-night.”

“The black clerks are my friends, Thsang,” laughed Wrenne again, and touched his horse lightly with his spur.

The two made a medieval picture as the light showed them outlined against the white steps of a temple—the slender, graceful, black-avised man in the imperial yellow uniform, golden-frogged, his crucifix sword suspended from a jeweled belt by a golden cord, the peacock's feather of his mandarin's hat trailing out behind him—the picture of a goodly man on a goodly horse, whose whiteness contrasted with Wrenne's hair and eyes; in his rear the Manchu, also in the imperial uniform, belted and booted, and uprearing his six feet three inches over a gray mare. And so they passed out of the light of the thoroughfare and into the Street of the Little Purveyors of the Poor—a mean alley with unclean causeway, where were the shops patronized by coolies, undertakers, and those of the lowest orders. It was an unsavory district through which to pass; but Wrenne knew by long experience that it was a rare Tsing-jin who would raise arms against one in the uniform of the Great Pure Kingdom.

“Hiaii!” called Thsang suddenly, in warning. “Spur thy horse, illustrious one!”

Involuntarily and without asking reasons, Wrenne's spurs came in contact with his horse's flank, and the splendid animal upreared itself on its haunches, stared with dilated eyes, and plunged suddenly forward. Out of the darkness of the street came grasping hands that caught the bridle, and were near to taking it from Wrenne's grasp. Again the spurs bit into the white horse, and with frightened neighs and whinnies—for never was there a kinder man to his beast than Hamilton Wrenne—it galloped madly along the rough street, dragging two men who held tightly to the bridle, tearing its gums until it champed red foam. Wrenne's hand went to his sword, and the blade of the crucifix glinted out of the darkness; but that same moment found a pair of yellow hands clutch his neck from behind. His feet slipped from the stirrups, and he went over backward. The owner of the yellow hands was undermost, and it was he whose head struck the stones of the street, sending him into unconsciousness and releasing his grip. Immediately Wrenne was on his feet, his eyes peering for his antagonists, his sword ready.

They came soon enough—the two who had caught the reins, and who had released them with the slipping of the American from his saddle. There was a pink puff, a little gray smoke, a sharp staccato of sound, and a bullet perilously close to Wrenne's shoulder, burning it. But by its light he had seen his antagonist and his sword slashed into human flesh, which quivered at the impact. A man with half-severed neck stumbled on his face into the roadway; another leaped into Wrenne's arms, sending the crucifix sword high into air.

Wrenne felt a sudden strangling, and a hotness overspread his skin. His antagonist's arm was crooked about his neck; the left fist was pounding the pit of his stomach. He grew curiously sick and ill, almost vomiting. Remembrance of his plight came in his violent twist, which freed him and sent the sword-point in the direction of this foul fight er. Only a laugh of derision and an attack from the back; a knee in the small; both hands about the gullet. Wrenne lashed out viciously with his spurred heels, and the grip grew weaker; the laugh changed to a cry of pain. He whirled upon his antagonist, his sword descending upon his unprotected head, splitting it cleanly through. But even as the blood spurted about the blue steel, something heavy struck the back of the American's head, and he went down into the unclean street.

Immediately some one knelt over his body, and a tiny electric torch showed a gleam as the kneeling one tore open the embroidered collar of the coat, the linen one underneath, the cambric shirt, the gauze undergarment. In the light of the torch was a square, silver box, suspended by a silver chain next the skin. The searcher could not find the catch. He pulled at it with eager fingers until the blood came leaping up from the white skin, where the links of the chain cut it—then at a weak place they snapped, the silver box was stowed away; the electric torch went out.

“Cooe-cooe!”

The ravisher of the chain whistled shrilly. The man with whom Thsang was at grips suddenly released himself, and fled up the street fleetly, following the one who had dragged Wrenne from his horse, who had been stunned, and who had come to life again in time to rifle the American of his dearest possession.

Thsang, weak from several wounds, kicked the body of the first assailant whom he had killed, and followed swiftly after the one who had escaped. But remembering, he halted, struck a match, and lighted a torch which he carried at his belt. It was more important that he should find the Black One, his colonel. And he found him with crushed head and matted hair, his neck bleeding where he had been despoiled.

Raging, the Manchu sheathed his colonel's sword, when he had made sure that the other two assailants were dead. Then, raising Wrenne's body in his arms, he staggered along the Street of the Little Purveyors to the Poor, slipping and stumbling among the refuse until he emerged upon the street of the legations. The American legation was close by—he let the unconscious body slip to the ground, while he knocked upon the gate with his free hand, and darted back in the protection of one of the stone dogs of Fo, two of which guarded the gate.

An American soldier, on guard, swung open the gate, and eyed the bloody figures suspiciously. Thsang, who knew pidgin-English, addressed him:

“You savvy my Melican mandalin all-same—all-same you call Lenne——”

“Gwan, Chink!” growled the upholder of American militarism. “Whatcher giving me, anyhow?”

And Thsang, very weak from loss of blood, lost his bland imperturbability, screaming insult in his own language at the soldier, who listened, highly amused.

“You no savvy Melican soldier—of-cer—take look-see.”

The American peered cautiously from behind the bars, and caught a glimpse of the white face, lifeless, in the starlight. Immediately the gate clicked open, and the American and Chinese carried the body within.

“It's Black Wrenne.”

The American soldier locked the gate and called shrilly to the legation servants:

“Here, you boys, make qui-qui now damn' pronto; you hear. Qui-qui.”

 

Sad was the plight of Captain Komoto when he, by devious ways, at last crept into the burrow of Kitsune-san. He was in dirty Chinese garments, rent and torn and stained with blood, his hands lacerated, his finger-nails broken to the quick. The back of his head was an unlovely plaster of sticky hair; he carried one hand limp, for the wrist was broken. And it was in this condition that he gained access to the cabinet where Gray Fox and Ito Ugichi sat smoking over their hibachis, and awaiting his return.

They noted the plight of him without surprise. They had not expected that their object would be attained without serious hurt.

Komoto saluted them.

“The gods have guarded you, Komoto,” grinned Ugichi.

“Little guard, excellency,” answered the soldier. “Little guard. I am a mass of broken bones and torn flesh; good for little duty for a month of moons. He was no weakling, excellencies.”

“Had he been, 'twould have been unnecessary to put upon his seeking the Captain Komoto,” returned Gray Fox. He peered at the soldier with ill-concealed impatience. “Has Kwannon been thy friend, Komoto-san?”

For answer, the addressed, one drew from within his torn garments a square silver box, to which was attached a stained and broken chain.

“This I took from the neck of the ijin-san,” he replied, without emotion. “The chain is broken. That I could not avoid, for I hasted.”

“For this a kanjo, Komoto,” cried Ugichi, and his eyes sparkled. “A kanjo for thee, Komoto. The golden kite shall be written upon thy breast, illustrious son of thy father.”

He took the box from the table, repressing his eagerness, and turning it over and over in his fingers. He saw no opening, fastening, or catch; and handed it to Gray Fox.

“Thou art familiar with the cunning devices of the silversmiths,” he said. “Do thou find the concealed spring!”

Kitsune fondled the box lovingly. In the silence that followed he sought with pressing thumb for the spring, finding it finally as the center of the flower's petals. It flew immediately open.

Ugichi and Komoto stood tense, watching him as he gazed at the open box; saw first surprise, then incredulity, then anger as he hastily felt with thumb pressed against the interior. Abruptly he threw the box upon a low table, and arose to confront the two.

“That was what he were about his neck—this Black Wrenne!”

Komoto bowed low. “Yes, excellency.”

“You have done well; go!”

Komoto went out. Ugichi and Kitsune faced each the other.

“Thou—the cunning and the subtle one; thou on whose information two soldiers of Japan have lost their lives; upon which I have builded false hopes—look what was within the silver box that hung about the neck of this Ijin-san, the Black Wrenne!”

Count Ito Ugichi picked up the box, and saw it to be but a frame for a small miniature of the face of Miss Elizabeth Courtney, whose eyes met his as he gazed at the painted reflection.

Chapter V.

A Question of Ethical Right—and Wrong.

Bess was never to know that her gift to Hamilton Wrenne had been the cause of the attack made upon him. It was true, as Ito Ugichi had said, that while in Shanghai she had the keys to the Dragon door enclosed in a silver box, and swung by a chain; true, also, that she had given such another silver box to Wrenne, but without thought of exposing him to danger. She had admired the workmanship of the key-box, and had sent a messenger to the silversmith's to have it duplicated. Wrenne had for a long time begged for a portrait of herself; and in odd moments aboard ship she had painted a miniature. This she fastened within the silver box; and in the dining-room of the Hotel Astor, in Shanghai, had given it publicly to Wrenne. And so, all unwittingly, she had put Ugichi on a false scent.

She was further unaware of the fact that any knew of her possession of the Double-Dragon keys, save only her brother Austin. There had been no hint of foul play in the death of Gordon Lee—she had not given the matter thought. Lee had complained, at their last meeting, of a weakness of the heart; this she naturally imagined had brought about his death. The various attempts of agents to secure the keys she put down only to petty thieves; and after leaving Shanghai she had carried the silver box in a chatelaine-bag fastened to her waist, because she found the weight of the chain was leaving a mark upon her neck.

But, although she did not know herself to be the innocent cause, she was aware of the fact that the attack upon Wrenne had materially changed their plans. In the solitude of the night after Wrenne left her, she had finally determined not to use the Dragon keys; not to attempt to pilfer the diamonds in the temple. She knew that in that act she was forgetting her duty to her aunts, going back on her word; but she loved Wrenne too much to take any chances of losing that love. The picture was to be finished the following week; she and Wrenne would quit Peking together and go back. She would always be in possession of enough money to keep her aunts from want—and she would not need to steal for them.

This plan might very well have been carried out, fresh with the impulse of the moment; might even have lasted a week while the first ecstasy of love endured. However, it happened that Hamilton Wrenne lay on a sick-bed for more than a month battling for his life; concussion of the brain having developed from the crashing blow he had received.

During this time work on the portrait was suspended, and Bess hovered about the sick-room in the character of nurse, wasting herself thin in her anxiety for the man she loved. And during this time she reflected over the situation; and decided that, after all, it would be wisest to take the diamonds. When Hamilton Wrenne quitted the Chinese service—what then? It might be that for the time it would be necessary for both of them to live on the proceeds of Bess' work; and she would not then be able to help Aunt Malvinia and Aunt Kitty. And Bess did not want to be poor again, in that condition of hardly knowing how the expenses of the week were to be managed; neither would it do to have her little sisters and her mother (who were almost dependent upon her) brought to the same straits. Money was necessary, and it was close to hand.

She recalled Austin's sophistry that she was robbing no one; the jewels were wasted there in the darkness; tradition kept the door closed. She was taking nothing from any one who needed it, who would miss it. She was not robbing any one in particular. The gems were not intended to be used even for display.

So the fine frenzy of her moral moment wore off in consideration of the practical things of life. There was only one thing to be considered. Hamilton must not know.

During his illness she had remained at the legation. Now that he was well again, she must return to the Winter Palace and finish the portrait. The first morning he was able to be about, a thin, wan shadow of himself, she said good-by for the time, and returned to her pavilion in the Gardens of the Invisible Deity. An audience with Kwang-Hsu resulted in the sittings being continued; and, after another week, during which she caught only hurried glimpses of Wrenne by flying visits to the legation, she had completed the portrait to the satisfaction of her royal patron; a levee was held, at which Chinese lords and ladies said many polite things about her work; and the picture was taken away to be framed.

It was on that night that she finally made her resolve to enter the temple of the Double-Dragon and secure the jewels.

 

Meanwhile she knew nothing of the position in which Wrenne had been placed during a month's lapse of time. Had he, in pursuance of his intention, quitted Peking at the end of the week he had set for himself, ostensibly to perfect some of the mechanism of the plan to seat Chu'un on the Great Purity throne, he would have been allowed to go without question. But the cogs of the plot had been revolving during their designer's illness; and the carrying out of the plan was being deferred only until he could take an active hand in it. Chu'un had been so long his puppet that the prince was at a loss to decide, or give instructions, without Wrenne's assistance and advice.

And so it was that on the same night that Bess finally decided to abjure her moral principles for the sake of both sentiment and practicality. Black Wrenne was summoned by Prince Chu'un to be present at the final meeting of the heads of the rebel party.

He argued the question with himself much in the same way that Bess had done. Just as it had been in her case, his rectitude was much more a thing of the moment than of endurance. He cared none the less for the girl. His love, had it been put to the test of choosing between her and his ambition, would, without doubt, have made little deliberation over the matter and allowed the ambitious projects of the past to take the wind's way, while he clung to the girl.

All of which shows that morals are for the most part inspired by the moment, save only when they bring about the question of hurt to some loved one—which latter is really not morality, only a certain form of sentiment.

It is difficult to condone the moral obliquity of Bess and of Black Wrenne; but excuse is found in the fact that, while the drama of their lives had cast them to play the parts of hero and heroine, they still remained most indubitably human. And in the workaday world of to-day, where ambitious souls strive for recognition, power, and the luxuries, it is not easy to relinquish opportunities for all these things, where only a matter of ethics is concerned, and go out facing poverty and obscurity without regrets for what might have been.

Wrenne was not altogether selfish in his deliberations on the matter any more than Bess had been. Her transgression of the moral code had only been made justifiable in her eyes when she considered the unhappiness that would be brought to a number of people by puritanic scruples. Black Wrenne was thinking as much of his sweetheart as of himself. He had no money and no prospects outside China. All his real life had been spent in the land of Tien-Ha, and with cumulative effect. Remaining behind, he became a man in power—if all went well. Venturing forth, he was again only an obscure adventurer. And as an adventurer with only his sword to sell, would it be possible for him to engage in any foreign service where he would keep that sword clean? Morality was not expected of mercenaries—they were the tools of revolutionists, princes of the succession; intriguers, diplomatic agents. He went away to China to face uncertainty of income without the certainty of straight dealing.

Thus reasoning, when he had reduced Prince Chu'un's parchment to the flimsiest bits of rice paper, which he flung to the wind of mid-afternoon, he decided that he would not withdraw from the plot to seat Chu'un on the throne of his fathers, but would take the reward of his years of waiting.

And so, on just such another beautiful night as the one when they had forsworn temptation each for the other's dear sake, when in the light of the good ancestors' lanterns they had spoken from their hearts, and with all the good that was in them—on just such another night as that both had come to the conclusion that beautiful sentiment and spotless love were for the starlight alone.

BOOK THREE.

Chapter I.

The House of Conspiracy.

It was the night of Hoa-tchao—The Birthday of a Hundred Flowers—and the spring moon sailed, a serene silver censer, through a cloudless sky. In the streets of the Three Cities men and women in gala dress called upon the flower goddess, Kwan-Yin, flying illumined kites the shapes of the lily and the lotus, and flinging garlands of blooms in air. Paper lanterns—green, red, yellow, multicolored—bobbed about in a fashion so crowded that one regarding the festival from an elevation surmised a frolic of prismatic glow-worms. The air was redolent of apple sprays and orange-blossoms. Out of the uproar one caught many indistinct notes—the tinkle of a stringed instrument, the strain of a song, the laugh of a woman.

Peking was very gay and future-careless that night.

A certain mansion, saw-tooth walled and iron-gated, and overlooking the Street of the Maimed Linnet, claimed attention through its lack of lights and festivity. Maskers passing spoke among themselves concerning it, their remarks to the effect that the mighty merchant, Hao-Khieou, was absent with family and servants, matters of business detaining him in Tien-tsin. Else there would have been mighty rejoicing among the poor, for upon such festivals Hao was wont to throw open his gates and have spread within his gardens a feast of roasted meats and candied confections; and any man, even the veriest coolie, might have his fill, blessing the spring-moon and Hao-Khieou in the same greedy breath. Those who had come this night so hoping went away with the gnawing disappointment of unfilled stomachs; but with no word of blame for Hao-Khieou. For the poor knew him as their friend, this merchant who had sacrificed a year's profits to feed his hungry brethren in famine time.

It was true enough that Hao-Khieou's family and servants were in Tien-tsin. But behind the closed shutters and the drawn blinds, lanterns and candles gleamed in the concourse hall of the dark house; and Hao-Khieou sat, engaged in weighty convention with other men of import. The soft rugs on the polished floors were the seats of fifty people of excellent accomplishment, bearing names reverenced the length and breadth of the Yellow Kingdom—scholars of the universities who had attained much merit; Manchu generalissimos; two Tartar princes, brothers of the blood; many Mongolian mandarins; the viceroys of four provinces, and the taotais of a score of cities; mandarins of the Yellow Banner, henchmen of the royal house; mandarins of the White Banner, their equals in race, only little inferior in power—these the thinkers, schemers, controllers of cities, provinces, and principalities.

Lacking, perhaps, somewhat of the brains and the power, but balancing the score by holding the strings of the money-bags, were the grave merchant princes; and of these Hao-Khieou was the chief.

Two foreigners completed the assembly; the first Hamilton Wrenne, pale after his illness, but very magnificent in his imperial vestments, his cloak, slashed with imperial yellow silk, thrown over one shoulder, his right hand resting on his golden-hilted sword. He sat on the right of Hao-Khieou; the other foreigner, Ito Ugichi on his left.

There had been much speech-making, much adulative rhetoric in speaking of one another, much veiled simile in referring to their reasons for being present in the darkened house of Hao-Khieou; but the metaphor was dropping away as the climax approached, and now they spoke almost baldly.

It was the first time that the heads of the party had been gathered together en masse. The plan had been perfected by working it out in segments. This was the work of Hamilton Wrenne and the Manchu general, Tchin—for Wrenne the planning and segregation, for Tchin the confidence gained to carry on the work. It had been to bring out a general uprising in northern China that these men had striven to make the upper provinces theirs, and most particularly that of Cheh-li. With the majority of the Manchus on their side, the subjugation of the lower provinces would not be difficult. They were ever slaves under the yoke, and it would be no great task to compel them to accept as emperor whoever sat upon the throne in Peking.

According to the Manchus, there was no rebellion in what they intended to do. Chu'un was Kwang-Hsu's brother, and as much entitled to the throne,as the puppet of Tze-Hsi. Neither of the two royal brothers was the son of the late monarch, but merely a nephew. When Hsien-Feng died at Jehol, his son, Tung-Chih, had been nominally emperor, with Tze-Hsi, his mother, as regent. But Tung-Chih had died after only two years' actual reign; and Hsien-Feng having left no further issue, the successor was chosen from among his nephews. Kwang-Hsu was chosen, his enemies stated, because he was the weakest-willed of the royal princes; and the empress-dowager had seen in him one through whom she could rule absolutely, as she had done.

They were bitter men who sat in the house of Hao-Khieou; men who had seen their country the despised of all nations during Tze-Hsi's domination—defeated ignominiously by Japan; saved from the Taipings only by European intervention; helpless before the mob rule of the Boxers, and the entrance of their sacred city by heavy-handed foreign troops, who cast down their gods and profaned their most reverenced customs. During Tze-Hsi's quasi-reign, China had been made a mock by Japan, bullied by Russia, insulted by the Anglo-Saxon races, and stolen from by all nations. It was a sore thing this, to these men who loved the land of Tien-Ha.

They were the reformers; nothing more. They saw in Prince Chu'un a gentle-minded prince of European education, who was acceptable to the people because of his ancestry; and to them, the conspirators, because of his foreign training and his desire for progression. They would have little active interference from him. He would do as he was asked, and make little bother over it. All he desired was the title of emperor of all the Chinas. But with his accession, the monuments of greed and imposition which had endured for centuries would go tumbling down; the modern methods would be adopted, and China put in a position to defend herself from the encroachments of foreign foes.

It was true that they had been forced to seek help from Japan in order to carry out their great project. In no other way was it possible for them to obtain the arms and ammunition they needed for their work. Also they needed the assistance of some regiments of Japanese soldiers, in order to inspire their own fighters. Japan was necessary to them; but they had no intention of yielding themselves to the dictation of the pgymy yellow nation, whom, in their secret hearts, they despised as mere imitators.

Yet no echo of these sentiments had Ito Ugichi heard. Secret as he was, he had underrated the Chinese after the fashion of his race. Though Japan could work and wait, China could work harder and wait longer. Though Japan had a great secretness, the secretness of China was vast; and these nobles and scholars of the Yellow Kingdom, knowing that those of Japan had imagined themselves China's preceptors and mentors, allowed the fallacy to assume proportions by fanning it with the wind of words. Ito Ugichi, Gray Fox, and others who served the mikado, looked upon the anticipated triumph of the rebels as the giving over of China to them. The rebels themselves saw in it nothing for Japan. They meant to promise everything, to give as little as possible.

As for Hamilton Wrenne, the only European in the plot, they had had him so long among them that the color of his skin was not a deterrent. He was of all the most necessary, after Chu'un, a reincarnation of “Chinese Gordon” to them. He it was who was able to lead Chinese soldiers to victory—he who had put down brigandage and minor rebellions with handfuls of troops; who was able to turn a thousand coolies into a well-ordered regiment of automatons in little time; who possessed the confidence of soldiers and officers alike, and whom almost every man in the army would follow unquestioningly wherever he led.

This was the climax of over two years of burrowing under the imperial edifice; this night when the Birthday of a Hundred Flowers was being celebrated in streets and palaces alike; the night when the first blow was to be struck for Chu'un and progress.

Prince Chu'un was not present at the gathering. It was unwise for a prince of the blood to leave the violet city at night and journey to a darkened house in the Tartar city. The empress-dowager had many spies in her employ; there were too many private informers in the persons of palace courtiers and retainers who would not be tardy in following up such a departure from the usual. But it was understood that Hamilton Wrenne represented the prince in person; and it was to him that the closing address of Hao-Khieou was made.

“The moment is at hand, Black One,” he said, as he approached the culmination of his peroration. “Outside the walls of the Chinese city are a thousand soldiers in the garb of coolies, having concealed near-by arms and munitions of war. These, I understand from the most illustrious Tchin, though scattered, are but waiting the signal to form and enter the city by the imperial catacombs, a plan of which has been furnished their colonel by you, procured from the exalted brother of the son of heaven. Within the city walls are another fifty score, scattered through these two cities, and in command of the worthy Yamachi, of the mikado's service. These, too, but wait the signal. The brothers of the blood in the service of the Yellow Dragon—soldiers whom thou hast trained thyself, envoy of the Black Fir—have been apprised of the situation, and they also wait for the time to strike. They are upon the walls of all three cities; even within the imperial palaces themselves. And they look upon thee, envoy of the Black Fir, as their leader, whose word is command. They will be faithful—you have promised that.”

“I have promised, and so it shall be,” answered Wrenne, rising.

There was a subdued sound of approving voices.

“Then”—and Hao-Khieou flung his hands outward—“why do we delay when all is ready? Procrastination is like strong wine to drug the soul of action. To-night close upon three thousand men, trained soldiers, wait the commands of the august Chu'un. The fires lighted at Peking will spread through all Cheh-li; to-morrow the province will be ours. Hupeh and Honan are promised; all others will follow. And to-night, when the whole of Tien-Ha is drunk with the spirits of the Birthday of a Hundred Flowers; to-night is the time to fling to the wind the banner of revolt—the revolt against the cruelty, the blood-lust, the covetousness of the hated Tze-Hsi, who, though she be the mother of a thousand emperors, is a menace to the land of our fathers. If China is to be preserved intact, we must be bound by other chains than those of fear and hatred. And so I say to-night!”

Again the hoarse murmur of approval.

“Before my humble dwelling was honored by thy feet across the threshold, Black-plumed One, there had been agreed among us that to-night there should go up from the walls of the violet city a signal of revolt. Well we knew that Prince Chu'un was undecided, waiting thy recovery. We knew better still that he flinches at the thought of the first blow—but to-night he must decide. Go, therefore, to him, Black Wrenne, taking in your hand these arrows of the night.”

He gave to Wrenne a packet containing what appeared to be three rounded sticks.

“Tell him that you have come for his approval; that close upon three thousand men but await the rending of the night by these arrows of flame to arise up, casting down the old regime for a new. Until he has spoken, there will be taken no action; but if he permits this night to pass without the blow being struck, he will hardly chance upon a better one, though he wait for a thousand Siu-fantis. Meanwhile those among us will go forth among the armed men who are waiting, inform them that when three golden arrows show against the black wings of the night angel all will enter the violet city, taking the forts in the name of Prince Chu'un, and aiding in securing the persons of the weakling, Kwang-Hsu, and his aunt, the accursed Tze-Hsi. To thee, then, is given the command of all the armies of the new order of things, thou who knowest so well the modern battling of arms. The night is thine, Black Wrenne—thine and the prince's. Farewell. We await his decision. If he hath approved, loose, then, the flaming rockets, and to-morrow's sun will rise upon a new emperor of the Chinas.”

All were upon their feet; all bowed low before Wrenne. He, a trifle dazed, thrust the rockets into his sword-belt, and threw his cape of imperial yellow over his shoulder. As he neared the door he drew his sword.

“I will be faithful,” he said, following the form of the conspirators, and held the sword in salute.

“I will succeed,” he added, and presented the sword at point.

“Or——”

And this time the sword-point covered his heart. With their subdued cheering, he shot the blade into its sheath, turned, and went swiftly from the room.

Chapter II.

Within the Dragon-Guarded Temple.

It was just ten o'clock when Bess Courtney pressed one of the window-catches, threw open the window, and stepped out on the marble pavilion of the Arbor of Buddha's Hand. The little Sèvres clock on its porcelain bracket was chiming out the last stroke of the hour as she closed the window behind her. She faced the Gardens of the Invisible Deity, a trembling, wan-faced, white-lipped girl.

There was a flood of moonlight on the lotus-covered lake, on the temple's golden roofs; on the hundred white steps leading to its doors. The gray-pink walls were illumined by it, the cedars and cypresses threw their long, languishing shadows across the beds of asters and peonies. As Bess descended from the terrace to the ground, a spray of white blossoms dropped from a chu-sha-kih tree; and she gave a little cry of fright, shrinking back against the terrace. Seeing the cause of her fright in the creamy blossoms, she forced a smile, and crept, a little gray-cloaked sprite, along the graveled walks skirting the lake, and coming to the foot of the temple's steps—a short journey in itself, but to her interminable, fraught as it was with fears of watchers lurking behind trees and walls; even some indefinite, superstitious dread of ghostly wraiths Chinese which looked to resent her profanation of sacred things.

At the foot of the steps she hesitated, crowding close to the little outbuilding, her feet tapping nervously on the marble blocks. After all, what had she to fear? The temple had been locked for many years. Back in her pavilion, her servants had retired to the servitors' quarters of the palaces. The gate to the southern archway, through which the emperor was wont to enter, was locked; the key to the northern one was in the possession of Hamilton Wrenne.

Wrenne! She shuddered at the thought that he might enter the gardens. But no! It was too late! That was not likely, his entrance.

She nerved herself to the ascent, clutching the keys in one hand. Tentatively she put her foot on the first marble step, then drew it back quickly. Almost weeping with shame for her cowardice, she spurred herself on to a sudden ascent of ten steps without looking back. But, weak and hesitating, her eyes were no longer to be kept to the front, but went around with a sudden turning of her head. She paused, stiff with fright. A broad black bulk lay directly back of her on the steps. Her eyes dilated when she remembered there had been nothing there as she ascended. Her horrified gaze had espied a certain human shape to the black thing.

And, as she realized, she laughed hysterically. “Afraid of her shadow!” How many times had she heard that used as a term of reproach for other women! No one would have imagined it fitting for Bess Courtney. Yet that had been what had frightened her—her shadow!

The impetus of her laughter carried her up several score steps. Looking back cautiously, she saw only the gardens white in the moonlight; the lake shining, the lotus resting serenely on its surface; the blossoms of the mandarin oranges waving gently in a spring breeze. She continued her ascent.

Now she faced the iron doors of the temple itself; a very terrifying dragon sprawled across them—a two-headed, green-scaled thing with staring eyes of clear jade. Those eyes seemed omnipresent and most diabolically alive. So saturated had she become with Chinese beliefs, that she could for the moment imagine this painted presentment to be animated by the spirit of some dead priest, who had served his allotted lifetime as a tender of the shrine. The dragon appeared more than a mere symbol—it was a very real, very inhuman protector of the great treasure that lay behind the entrance it guarded.

She was forced to master herself again before she drew up her hand and inserted the iron key in the door. She turned it to the right without effect; to the left with the same result; and imagined the jade eyes grinning at her. But she had come too far now to be bested by difficulties. They made the task easier for her; taking from her mind the weight of the supernormal. She knew that this iron key must fit the door; and threw the whole weight of her body against the fingers that held it. It turned with a loud, crawly screech, very akin to Bess' remembrance of a refractory slate-pencil scratching against a slate. But the physical revulsion that it caused saved her the mental shock; and, pushing her right shoulder against the door, she found it swinging gently backward.

She entered, turning on the pocket electric arc with which she had provided herself in anticipation before leaving Washington. It showed another door and the blood-chilling spectacle of two enormous red eyes glaring into hers. Her affright was so intense that she made neither sound nor movement.

There was barely space enough for three people to stand between the first door and the second one. Bess' arc had disclosed the second to be of burnished copper, with a dragon painted across it with red pigments, its eyes four enormous rubies. She pushed the first door shut, and unlocked the second one after some difficulty, revealing a third shining in its white exterior; the familiar dragon this time silver-scaled, and with diamond eyes, the size of which brought the girl to sudden realization of the enormous value of the treasure she was seeking—these diamonds alone would almost cover Austin's defalcations.

The fourth door was painted yellow, and had a golden dragon with topaz eyes. That pushed behind her, she stood within the temple itself, the dust of unswept years in her nostrils, a coughing, sneezing, frightened girl in the most sacred precinct of the Forbidden City—The Temple of the Seven Thousand Eyes of Buddha.

With the dust out of her eyes, she saw that she was within a rotunda, the walls of which were composed of in tensely yellow tiles, each tile forming a niche for a statue of the squatting, arm-folded presentment of Buddha. The images seemed uncountable. She saw them rising in tiers from every curve of the rotunda, all duplicates, and all of yellow porcelain. In the center, a raised throne served as seat for a great golden Buddha; a hundred-fold augmentation of those in the niches. When the light of Bess' arc fell upon the huge image, she drew back, amazed.

She had seen many of these Buddha images, but this was by far the most beautiful. The folds of the garments, the shape of the hands, the minute accuracy of face and figure, even the formation of the finger-nails, with the two guards to each hand—these had been executed in such a way as to wring envious admiration from her artist's soul. Richly wrought vases of enamel at the Buddha's feet held jeweled flowers; tall golden candlesticks studded with pearls and rubies were on either side of it. The upper part of the throne was hung with a frieze of red-and-gold-clothed saints.

Yet for all the exquisite workmanship, there was no semblance of life in the face of the golden image. Bess, not understanding, came to the foot of the throne, her footsteps attended by clouds of dust from the silken rug of imperial yellow on which Buddha's priests had been wont to kneel. Observing closely, she saw the reason for the lack of expression in the face. The golden Buddha was blind.

Then it was that she turned her arc-light upon the small images in the niches. They, too, lacked the semblance of eyes. She smiled slightly when she saw how patiently the symbolic term had been carried out. All of the Buddhas were blind. No doubt there were three thousand five hundred of them to represent the seven thousand eyes, spoken of in the metaphor. The thing appalled Bess with the thought of the amount of patience necessary to carry out such a whim of fancy.

It was now for her to find the eyes of all these sightless Buddhas—the treasure that had haunted her for the many months that had passed since Gordon Lee gave her the keys to the Double-Dragon doors. She flashed the arc about, but saw no boxes or receptacles of any kind. Momentarily she imagined she had not seen aright, so paced the entire curve of the rotunda. It was quite true. There was nothing that appeared to contain treasure of any kind—only the tiled walls, with their array of imperturbable images and the great throne in the center.

She sat down heavily on the lower step of the throne. No doubt the jewels were hidden in some secret room which required a knowledge of hidden springs. Tears came into her eyes. She had risked all, sacrificed scruples, taken chances of losing Wrenne—for this! Her clenched hand came down heavily on the step. The resultant sound caused her to sit suddenly erect.

It had been hollow, quite hollow, the ring of her hand against the red lacquer of the throne. She sprang up. Yes, there was a chance. The steps of the throne projected slightly over their support. She reached down, caught the edge, pulled it upward, and drew back, dazzled at the lights that shone in her eyes.

There lay the jewels protected from prying eyes and the touch of desecrating hands—at Buddha's feet, indeed. For each step was but a box within which the jewels lay.

She threw open one after another. They were shallow, lengthy boxes, lined with imperial yellow silk, the customary dragon ornamenting it. She put out her hand, touching the glorious gems; letting them slip through her fingers, while she held her breath at the beauty of them—living pieces Of light that sparkled and scintillated before her—blue diamonds, yellow diamonds, white diamonds. And this wealth lay in touch of her hands.

When she came out of her gasping stage she acted swiftly. A silver-mesh chatelaine-bag hung at her waist—a large bag which she had found useful when she went shopping, for it would hold pocketbook, toilet requisites, and any small articles she might purchase. She unhooked it from her belt, and with eager hands scooped up the gems between her white fingers, cramming them into the bag until it was barely possible to close it. She had no idea of the value of the wealth she had taken, imagining it to be, perhaps, double the amount that Austin needed to repay her aunts. She did not realize it quadrupled that sum, and gave a large balance besides.

Now that she had actually done the thing, she looked about apprehensively, with the haunted gaze of the evil-doer. She closed the throne steps, and went hastily to the doors without, finding some difficulty in shutting and locking them securely. Finally it was done, and she found herself without the temple, and making frantic efforts to close the last door—the iron one. The blood rushed to her head; her whole body was strained. The door was gradually closing.

She paused to take further breath, turning as she did to view the moonlighted gardens. And then she stood back, wild-eyed, numb, choking back a scream in her throat, one hand extended flat against the green-scaled Double-Dragon.

A man stood at the foot of the steps and gazed upward at her.

Chapter III.

Clash of Steel in Candle-Light.

Wrenne left the house of Hao-Khieou-by a rear entrance: a door in the garden wall which had its outlet into a narrow alley. He wormed himself along this, close to the wall, until he emerged upon the Street of the Maimed Linnet, where his orderly, Thsang, walked two horses up and down the causeway, awaiting the return of his master. The varicolored lanterns bobbed to and fro in the street; but the sight of Thsang's imperial uniform kept an open space always before him. As Wrenne joined him, a pretty singsong girl, bedecked with flowers and jewels, and leaning from a palanquin borne by two coolies, flung a garland of asters about his neck, and invited him with sparkling eyes. He doffed his plumed mandarin hat in mock respect; and the girl, catching sight of the peacock-plume, shrank, back in affright, closing the curtains.

As he mounted his horse and rode away toward the violet city, Wrenne did not see the figure of Ito Ugichi, wrapped in a heavy cloak of tan serge, emerge from the same alley, and stand looking after the two as they rode down the Street of the Maimed Linnet. In the shelter of a compound farther up this same street, Ugichi got upon a horse also, and turned its head in the direction Wrenne had taken. By pursuing divers short cuts through mean streets and dark alleys, he came to the imperial city gate before Wrenne and his orderly; was admitted by the parchment of Prince Chu'un which he carried always with him, and left his horse to be cared for by the gate soldiers while he went his way toward the prince's palace.

Wrenne arrived at the gate a little later; and the officer of the guard told him of the admittance of the stranger who bore Prince Chu'un's parchment. It had been impossible to recognize Ugichi. His cloak muffled both face and form, and the officer had no reason to believe him other than Chinese, for the greetings had been made in the Mandarin tongue. Moreover, the Japanese count had fastened to his head a cue, which had dangled in full sight from under the mandarin's hat that he wore.

Wrenne, not thinking of the Japanese, dismissed the matter; and, giving over his horses to the care of Thsang, with instructions to remain by the gate, was about to be on his way. The guard officer—a Manchu from near Yinkow, and a lieutenant of the line—stopped him with a deprecatory cough. Wrenne turned. The Manchu held out his hand.

“Chu'un and progress,” he whispered, as he turned Wrenne's wrist so that the palm came uppermost. It was the agreed sign of recognition between those of the conspiracy.

“You?” Wrenne stepped back in some surprise. He knew the man's family to be henchmen of the dowager's father, the old Manchu general.

“I,” responded the officer blandly. “And all the men of my gate, Black-plumed One.” He paused, then in a lower tone: “Is it to-night that we may expect the three golden arrows?”

Wrenne shrugged his shoulders. “Patience is the heritage of those that achieve,” he answered, in Confucian style. “Success is the reward of those expectant and watchful always. How may we know?”

“We are ready,” stated the officer briefly; then, saluting, stepped back and allowed Wrenne to pass.

Wrenne did not enter the yamen of Prince Chu'un by the gateway of ceremony. Most Chinese being plotters and conspirators, few houses in the Celestial kingdom are built without secret entrances and exits. It was through one of these—a gateway sheltered by a huge acanthus-tree—that Wrenne entered with his private key, and found himself in Chu'un's outer garden. He threaded his way among the dwarfed trees and shrubs, through a profusion of flowers. The buildings composing the Chu'un yamen were very dark and quiet. The servants and retainers were mostly without in the Tartar city celebrating the Flower Birthday. Wrenne opened another gateway in an inner wall; and, passing through a paved court, ascended a flight of black marble steps to the very private quarters of the prince. He passed through a lofty-ceilinged rotunda, and knocked upon an inner door. A eunuch admitted him.

Remembering the officer's tale of the cloaked person who had entered with a passport from Chu'un, Wrenne asked the eunuch as to whether the prince had had visitors that evening. The eunuch shook his head.

“None, illustrious and powerful servant of the son of heaven”—with a bow only a little less subservient than that which etiquette demanded for royalty. “The exalted brother of the Great Purity has but recently returned from the Imperial Theater, where the players celebrate the Birthday of a Hundred Flowers. He hath commanded that none save thyself be admitted into his dread-compelling presence.”

But Wrenne had passed far down the corridor before the eunuch had finished his sentence. A second door and a second eunuch, a third door and the prince's guard of soldiers, a fourth door and his own personal servant; and Wrenne was in the presence of Chu'un, who reclined on a couch built into the wall, eating lazily of Chinese sweets from a little tabouret at his side, and taking occasional whiffs from a cigarette.

He started up at the entrance of Wrenne, dismissing the sing-song girls who had been amusing him. His servant let them through the minor door, and was himself dismissed by a wave from the thin, yellow hand.

“Eh, my Black Wrenne?” Chu'un asked nervously, when the red-walled room held only their two persons. “Eh, it is well? Advise me, my Wrenne. I am stilted and stupid to-night. The hoofs of my horse killed a cat to-day—it is an ill omen. Her eyes were reminders of some I had known. Perhaps a dead relative. You laugh, my Wrenne; you think me absurd—nor believe that the spirits of ancestors may be within the bodies of animals.” He smiled patiently. “I am well punished for mixing with my Eastern temperament a Western sense of humor. Myself, I believe the cat was near related to me—therefore is its death an ill omen. The humor of the West obtruding makes a mock of the real ego. And so—but—what of the meeting, my Wrenne?”

His hand closed over his aide-de-camp's wrist.

Wrenne told him in a few whispered sentences, and, finishing, took the bundle of rockets from his belt.

“Three golden arrows they call these. They are to be shot upward from within the violet city as a sign that the rising to-night has your full approval.”

He looked at his watch.

“The night is spending itself,” he added.

Chu'un twisted his hands. “Eh—my Black Wrenne? It is to-night, eh? Not too early—nor—but I do not know. I am a poor figurehead—is it not so, my Wrenne? With only you to advise me—you whom I know to be a friend. You I trust. And if it is that you say the affair shall be to-night, then—I give you my permission to pierce the night with your golden arrows—eh, my Wrenne?”

He laughed nervously.

Wrenne arose. “Within half an hour after these arrows go upward three thousand men will be under arms. In less than an hour Peking will acknowledge for its emperor only the Prince Chu'un.”

“Enough!”

Chu'un was trembling.

“I go, then,” replied Wrenne.

He paused near the painted screen that divided the room.

“To bring you a crown, exalted one.” Then, laughing, was gone.

He passed through several doors before he remembered that he had left the bundle of rockets behind; and quickly retraced his steps, the guards at the doors paying little attention to him, dozing as they were, for the most part, in their seats. Wrenne had a peculiarly catlike method of treading, and he reentered the prince's outer chamber without noise, and before the occupant of the inner room realized his presence.

Chu'un's chamber was divided into two parts by a silk-paneled screen depicting a wonderful forest of cypress and cedar-trees, in the center of which the spires and roofs of a fairy city showed. It was the work of an artist of the last century; a marvelous bit of white, silver, and green. One of the panels was a sliding one, and through this Wrenne had passed when he came out, shutting it behind him. He put his hand to it, slid it back with his customary noiselessness, and the key-panel of the screen, the fairy city, disappeared from view.

In its place Wrenne had the view of the red-walled inner chamber, a yellow-robed figure face downward on the floor, and a liquid something trickling crimson on the white marble floor. Over it stood Ito Ugichi cleaning his sword very carefully with a square of silk.

His mode of entrance was quite well known to Wrenne; but for the moment he had forgotten it—a trap-door opening from under a rug seemingly marble, but really painted teak-wood. The secret way led through the palace along a narrow flight of stairs, having for exit the lifting up of the floor of a little summer-house near the wall. Wrenne seldom used the entrance. It was difficult of egress, and the abode of insects, rats, and reptiles. He noted even now that Ugichi was covered with cobwebs.

Very slowly Wrenne realized the facts in the case. It was quite plain that Ugichi had killed Prince Chu'un; but the reasons for it did not come immediately. The shock of the matter was too great for that. Chu'un had grown to be a very personal friend of Hamilton Wrenne; and it was not until he saw the sprawling, lifeless body of the prince that a full sense of his loss came to him. But for all of that he remained calm. Reasons—what reasons?

And then—quite simply they presented themselves to him. Ugichi had quitted the house of Hao-Khieou just after he had left it—had known Wrenne's mission. Entering by the secret way, he had waited until Chu'un gave his consent to the signal of revolt. When Wrenne had gone, he had eliminated the prince. The revolt would go on in the name of Chu'un. When it was too late for the leaders to quiet their troops, it would become apparent that they were dethroning one emperor without another to put in his place. It would be the opportunity for a Japanese dictatorship. Yes, it was quite plain.

The reflections and waiting had hardly consumed a minute's space. Meanwhile Ugichi had looked up and seen the frowning black-browed man, his cloak of imperial yellow thrown over his shoulder, his hand on his crucifix-hilted sword. In the eyes of the Japanese, Wrenne saw something more of reasons—saw that at one stroke Ugichi had hoped to rid himself not only of Chu'un, but of him, Hamilton Wrenne. No one had seen the Japanese enter or depart. Wrenne would have quitted the chamber the last visitor; and, the prince found dead after his leave-taking, the blame of his murder would be Wrenne's alone. The evidence was enough to damn him, both with the new party and the old. It took from the Japanese the last danger of opposition.

Ugichi only stared insolently at Wrenne. He said nothing. He knew the quick brain under that well-groomed black hair, and realized by Wrenne's expression that his intentions were perfectly plain to his enemy. But he only smiled in his meaningless way. There was no cowardice in the make-up of the Japanese; at least not the sort that made him fear for his life.

He had two revolvers strapped to his waist; but he knew that a movement toward either one meant instant death at the hands of Wrenne. The American was far more proficient in the use of firearms than he; could draw more quickly, and aim without raising his hand above his hip. Ugichi knew also that Wrenne had no wish to have a revolver-shot arouse the sleeping soldiers and eunuchs of the yamen. So he continued to polish the blade of his sword with the square of silk, blowing upon it and rubbing it into a satisfactory glow.

Wrenne came forward, his eyes upon Ugichi, put one hand behind him, and slid the panel into place. Then, quite as the Japanese imagined he would do, his sword-hand drew the thin steel whizzing out of its sheath. Bending the sword by pressing the point upon the marble paving, he took it between both gauntleted hands, and curved it into what was nearly a bow. Apparently satisfied, he allowed it to resume its natural shape again; and with his free hand unloosened his silken cloak. This he tossed on the couch.

“You wish to try a pass of the sword with me?” asked Ugichi politely.

Wrenne said very quietly that he did.

“We are evenly matched,” resumed Ito Ugichi, with suavity unexcellable. “You are a famous swordsman—and I am a quicker man. Is it necessary that we fight?”

“I don't see any way out of it,” Wrenne answered coldly. “If I had my choice, I should have you strung up and beaten to death with bamboos—after the dowager's favorite practise. I never imagined such a punishment justifiable—until now, you yellow rat! It's unfair to Prince Chu'un and myself to kill you honorably, painlessly. But it's got to be done. There——”

He lunged. The Japanese parried with perfect ease, and flicked a piece of skin from Wrenne's shoulder.

“And there!” he added, still grinning. “Not quite so much lacking in difficulty, eh, Meestaire Black Wrenne.”

Sometimes they fought in the light and sometimes in the shadows. A niche in the red walls on either side held two candle sprays, with yellow tapers gleaming out of their golden censers. These threw their light directly across the center of the room, where lay the body of the murdered prince. Wrenne tried to keep within the circle of light. He had been but lately a convalescent, and knew that it would be quite impossible for him to win by strength and endurance. He must have light in order to watch the eyes of the Japanese and to give himself opportunity to execute a very cunning trick taught him by a former brother officer, who had been a famous maître-d'armes in Rome before the wanderlust seized him.

But Ugichi seemed to be intent in getting him away from the light.

The American had, save for his first hostile lunge, been entirely on the defensive. It required a certain thrust from the opponent in order to put the maître trick of tierce into play; and Black Wrenne left his revenge in abeyance while he waited for Ugichi to make the necessary opening. But this Ugichi did not do. He had a masterful trick o' the fence himself, unhampered by conventional teachings and strikingly lacking the things that Wrenne expected him to do. His thrusts were, for the most part, half-thrusts, having as complement a quick withdrawal and a turn of the wrist, sending his antagonist's sword splay-wise and Wrenne several steps backward for each time he accomplished the turn.

It was not without a certain admiration for Ito's skill that Wrenne faced him. The fires lighted in his brain by the death of Chu'un and the trick of the Japanese to fasten the guilt of the murder upon him died out, leaving only the cold ashes of desire for adequate recompense. His smile matched the grin of the Japanese in its utter lack of meaning; but it was a smile that drove away the curves of his mouth and made them abruptly cruel. His black eyes seemed to slumber behind his half-drawn lashes, giving the face the effect of a pretending feline waiting her chance to strike, the brows forming a heavy black line across the forehead. With his cloak gone and in the circle of light, every muscle in his lithe body showed quivering under the tight-fitting uniform; and, as he abandoned the defensive, his movements were disconcerting in their apparent recklessness.

He forced upon Ugichi a style of fence to which the diplomat must either conform or feel Wrenne's sword-point. The tricks upon which the Japanese had seemed to place his skill were dependent on the style of sword-play necessitating a long reach. Black Wrenne, abandoning this, came closer and closer with, each parry, until they fought with their swords either high in air, or else turning like keys in locks as they came together at the hilts. And then, while in this manner parrying, Ugichi gave the opening thrust which Wrenne had so much desired. Wrenne played his trick with a sudden, vicious baring of teeth—but without effect, and nearly with the result of having the blade of the Japanese pierce his shoulder.

Wrenne leaped quickly to his former position; and again their swords met one another.

“A neat play,” commented the Japanese. “But I have learned it, you see, mon cher Wrenne. I also have fenced in Rome.”

Wrenne was considering rapidly. He was losing breath and strength; and it was quite apparent to him that, his trick exhausted, he was no better swordsman than the Japanese. Nor did he wish to engage in hand-grips, for he knew Ugichi to be proficient in ju-jutsu, before which his own strength would have very little chance of holding its own. The Japanese was a traitor, a murderer—and fair play was out of the question with him.

Again they came closer, and again their swords shot out in air. In that moment, with the—points toward the ceiling, Wrenne did a bold thing. He released the hilt of his blade; and before it had clattered to the floor he fastened one hand about the throat of Ugichi, caught the sword-wrist of the Japanese with the other hand, and kicked him viciously on the lower leg. The Japanese went prone, with Wrenne on top of him. The same second found Wrenne planting a knee in Ugichi's chest, and twisting the sword-wrist under his back. Ugichi lay quite powerless. Wrenne's foot was planted heavily on the fingers of Ugichi's free hand, his knee held, the Japanese down with sword-hand under him, while Wrenne's two hands choked the air from his gullet. He wriggled violently, pulling the sword from under his back. One of Wrenne's hands shot out and tore it from his numbed grasp. Without pang of pity, Wrenne shortened the blade and thrust it through Ugichi's throat. The Japanese raised himself on his hand with one convulsive effort, then fell back quite still. Wrenne felt his heart, and arose with a satisfied smile.

Chapter IV.

The Three Golden Arrows Fly Skyward.

For some time after he had killed the Japanese, Wrenne remained quite still, wondering what he should do. His shoulders bent, his head on his chest, he pondered over the matter. What, indeed, was best? For the moment the fate of China was entirely in his hands. He had but to loose the rockets—but what then? Now that he saw the hand of Japan in the matter, was it wise?

Then his eyes brightened, and he regained his erect bearing. He would go to Bess, confess to her that he had strayed back into the crooked foot-paths, ask of her advice. She with her clear, honest eyes must determine for him—he would watch the eyes to know what she thought. And he would do as they bade him.

He pulled away the rug, lifted the trap-door, and pitched what was left of the Japanese head first down the flight of steps. Very tenderly, however, he carried the body of Chu'un down, wrapped in the golden coverlet of his couch, and laid him at the foot of the stairs. Returning, he threw the rug over the blood-stains, then closed the trap-door, and passed out by the usual passage.

The servants and the guards had heard nothing. The eunuchs blinked sleepily as they made him obeisance. He went his way rapidly through the Chu'un gardens to the wall that opened into the imperial palaces, and opened the secret gate with the key given him by the prince long before. The gate closed behind, and he was in the Gardens of the Invisible Deity.

The moon was very bright, limning trees, shrubs, and buildings in lines of frosted silver. Lights were out in the pavilion of the Arbor. He hesitated as to whether he should enter and awaken Bess. She had probably retired. For all her troth to him, he felt a delicacy in intruding upon her at this hour. But he must have her counsel—himself he could not decide.

He walked the length of the gardens while he meditated, and came to the foot of the temple's hundred steps, which shone like a white moon ladder above him. Looking up, he saw something that sent, despite his courage, a cold shiver through him. One cannot live in China and acquire none of her superstitions. The door of the Double-Dragon, closed these ten years, was flung open; and out into the moonlight had come a cloaked figure.

He stared upward; then, the figure turning, a pale, white face was abruptly outlined in the moonlight. He had no suspicion of its identity; only knew himself either to be dreaming or in the presence of an actual psychic phenomenon. Perhaps an omen—if ever man needed advice of superlunary sort, he was the man! He mocked secretly at himself for his paradoxical thoughts; but, his mind made; he bounded up the steps, taking three at a jump, until he came to the level of the doors.

Now he stood within reaching distance of the figure. His eye took in a cape of soft gray, with two little blue tassels falling from the neck. The cape awoke vague recollections. On shipboard—yes—Bess! He looked again. How was it possible? The door to the temple was open—wide open.

He put out one hand, and withdrew it. The figure had its back to him, head resting against the door, rounded shoulders shaking convulsively. His ears became aware of muffled sobbing.

The temple door open—and Bess here! From some recess of his memory came the remembrance of Chu'un's recognition of the sketch the girl had made of the exiled mandarin of the White Banner. It occurred to him that her cheeks had flushed when she said the exile was dead. That mandarin had left China with the keys of the temple in his possession—and——

Bess—a thief!

This time he put out both hands; and the fingers sank deep into the flesh under the soft cape. He turned the figure around. He released one shoulder; and held up the girl's head by pushing against the chin. Her eyes streamed tears. She would not look at him.

“Bess!” he said; and in his blind rage shook her violently. The silver bag that she was holding fell from her grasp, and to the marble platform. The clasp came undone, and a hundred or more white stars seemed to have fallen upon the marble. Wrenne's eyes went down to them. In that moment he realized.

She was a thief!

In his anger he almost struck her. So this was the girl for whom he had come near abandoning all his schemes for success—because perforce they were unworthy of the man she loved. He laughed, and the mirth had a bitter tang in it. Her eyes, weary, hopeless, met his.

“Don't, Hamilton. Don't—don't——”

She stretched out her arms, beseeching him. He pushed her away with an angry snarl.

“You stole those!” he said; and pointed to the gleaming stones at his feet.

She bowed her head in sobbing acquiescence.

“You did?” he asked, a menace in his tone.

“Yes.”

His teeth grated hard against one another. “You did—eh?. You did. Oh, my God! you did? You stole them, did you? You came here and stole them; and you meant to steal them all along, I guess. You did, eh?” He was snarling again at her. “You did mean to steal them all along?”

Again she bowed her head.

He caught her by the wrists, hurting her cruelly. “All the time you talked to me about my better self, I guess? All the time you were posing to me as a little toy angel? That's what, eh? Well, I hope you're glad you've destroyed all that's decent in me—every bit that's decent in me. Why, I was ashamed of myself—I was, because I thought of you—how much better you were—and all that. And all this fine stuff you gave me was lies—all lies, eh? Every blasted word was a lie, a lie—eh, wasn't it?”

She stood the pain of his twisting grasp, not murmuring. She could have no pain of body comparable with the hurt her soul was receiving from his words. For, as she looked at him—big, black, and sinister in the moonlight—she loved him absolutely, without reserve, for the first time. Before, it had been a love founded on his caring for her; but now there was no thought of self in the matter; only a passionate adoration of the black-avised, brutal soldier who was twisting her wrists until it seemed they must break. But she made no outcry of pain.

“You meant to take 'em all along, did you?” he mouthed for perhaps the twentieth time. “Meant to steal them, and you did it! Ah, you——”

He checked himself at the epithet. It remained unuttered. Instead, he flung her away from him; and she staggered back against the green-scaled dragon, her eyes entreating him piteously.

He was not of stone. The mute appeal of the eyes sent his head back again to his chest, his shoulders forward. He swallowed hard, and turned his back to her, his eyes falling upon the shining marble terrace of the Arbor over the way. It was on that terrace that he had seen his supreme moment of joy—the moment when he felt he had won the truest, sweetest girl in all the world. And now, in sight of that almost sacred place, he had been dashed down from the heights; had found her not to be the ideal he imagined, but a woman who had stooped to—theft!

She had meant to deceive him, too. Had he not come at that moment, he would not have known—ever. He would have worshiped the ideal always, perhaps; and, while he worshiped, she might again betray. The thought was bitter. His jaws snapped together, blood running from his bitten lips.

To-night he had come prepared to submit to her; to abide by her decision. He had come to her for the honest course to pursue—and had found her stealing. The thought almost maddened him. He turned and met her gaze.

Unconsciously he made a movement forward to take her in his arms; then sternly checked himself with a sullen curse for his weakness. Was it possible that he still cared? But then, perhaps, she could explain! That was it—he had not asked for an explanation. No doubt she had one, and a good one, too. The frown fell away from his brows. His tone was pleading.

“You can explain, Bess?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was a still, small voice that answered him. “I can explain. That Chinese whose picture I painted was the Chinese whom I took home—at Roland Park that day. The first time you saw me, Black Wrenne; you do remember?—long ago. Yes, he was the one Chu'un spoke of—the exiled mandarin. And he gave me the keys. Afterward he died. Austin had taken money given him by my aunts—all they had—and lost it in speculation. We were very poor. I couldn't make it up—and it was all they had. And Austin asked me to—use the keys. I didn't want to use them, Hamilton. I didn't want to; indeed I didn't. But then came this chance to paint the picture—and—I didn't refuse. Can't you see? It was the family shame—and the two old women—my aunts! And so I came. And then I—grew to love you, Hamilton, and I couldn't take them—couldn't. But while you were wounded I thought of our prospects—how little we would have when you quitted China—and things were so unsettled. And there are so many dependent on me. So I came here and took them—not many—only enough to repay Aunt Malvinia and Aunt Kitty, and something over for us to use. Can't you see, Hamilton? Can't you see—and forgive me?”

He raised the sleeve of his coat and brushed his eyes, then stared away at the moonlighted garden. Presently he spoke.

“There must be mutual forgiveness,” he answered quietly.

She gasped.

“It seems that both of us promised more that night than we could fulfil. We made a mistake, you and I, imagining that our natures were to be changed by love. When I came out of my illness, I, too, wondered what we should do away from China—saw a black future for both of us. And so I—went on with the plotting. I——”

He faced her.

“Yes, I did. I, who raved and frothed a few moments ago because I found out that you were not the perfect being I had imagined. I went back on all I said to you, and continued in the plot. The date of the rising is set for to-night. I wanted you, but I wanted power, too. The stars put strange fancies into our heads that night.”

She came forward, and put both hands on his shoulders.

“Hamilton,” she said, “do you love me?”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her until she breathed heavily.

“You see, Bess,” he went on, “it was neither the ideal nor the physical. I couldn't have loved the ideal—for you aren't the ideal any more, and I love you just as much. We have confounded our love for one another with a lot of musty platitudes. I don't love you because you're good, or clever, or beautiful—but just because you're Bess; and you—well, you love me for just what I am. We weren't satisfied with the beautiful thing that love is in itself—we had to tack on morals and fine frenzies, and copy-book maxims—when the real expression of the thing is so far beyond us that when we tell one another of it, we've only three little words. The rest doesn't sound very real—does it?”

“The three little words are enough,” she breathed. “If—if—you say them often enough—dear.”

He buried his face in her hair, and whispered “I love, you” over and over again—then suddenly released her.

When she looked up at him he spoke, telling her of the plot, the occurrences of the night, the deaths of Chu'un and Ugichi.

“And now,” he said wearily, “it all rests with me. But what to do, God knows! If I send up these three rockets, Peking will be ours before the night is over—and the province of Cheh-li besides. But without a leader, what Japan has planned for will happen—the dictatorship of Japan. But the other way—to risk nothing, to give up all we have planned for—what?”

He shook his head, adding:

“That was why I came to you for advice.”

“And do you want it now?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Then I will give it—selfishly, for your sake. You would not be happy if you went away, threw up your career. You must have your chance to strike. You say the rebellion has no leader—why not? It has you.”

He thrilled at the light in her eyes.

“Yes, you. And as for Japan, play them a trick with their own cards. Loose your rockets; make Peking yours to-night. You want a nominal head to rule China, you reformers. Why dethrone Kwang-Hsu? Is he not sufficiently nominal. Rid him of the presence of the dowager-empress. Banish her to the Jehol palaces, and let the Reform Party rule in the name of the emperor. Let there be no violence. The city can be taken without bloodshed. You have told me that all are on your side—all that count. Enter the imperial city at the head of your soldiers. Make prisoners of Kwang-Hsu and the queen-mother. Show him the force of the mailed hand. Let him choose between dethronement and death on one hand, and ruling through the Reform Party on the other. Let the terms of his continuation as emperor be the banishment of the queen-mother, Tze-Hsi, and acceding to the demands of the Reformers. While you have him prisoner, let him write a decree banishing Tze-Hsi, and a solemn agreement to abide by the terms you have made him. Then get rid of your Japanese allies, and, with General Tchin and the other Reformers, rule for the weakling, Kwang-Hsu. And, ah, my Black Wrenne, what a ruler you will make! And mine—all mine!”

He had caught the glow of her enthusiasm. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, his hand trembled.

“Bess,” he said, and, raising her hands to his lips, kissed them, “you have cut the Gordian knot; have solved the difficulty for me. To-night's rebellion will be such a one as history has never before recorded. A rebellion in which not a shot will be fired; in which, if possible, not a man will be killed. The world at large will never know that Kwang-Hsu was forced, practically, to abdicate his throne. In the sight of the world he will continue emperor—but over a different China. For China will be rid at last of the harpy, Tze-Hsi, who has sucked its blood for so long.”

He laughed whimsically as he turned his face to her.

“And so good comes out of evil, little girl. Good for China out of my evil and yours. It's only an ethical thing, this question of right and wrong. We are safe only when we follow our strongest beliefs. If I had abandoned my share in the plot, China would have been given over to Japan. Had you renounced your theft, you would have brought starvation and dishonor on your family. And for what? That a pair of idealistic fools—ourselves—might drift aimlessly about the world and commend our consciences!”

He tore paper and string from the rockets, and held them in his hand, staring at them.

“Thank God we were not ethical, Hamilton!” she said. “Thank God for the good that came out of our wrong! And thank God that what we love in one another is what we are—I just a wilful woman; you a heavy-handed man! And we love one another for just that—don't we, dear?”

He took both her hands in his.

“But there's enough good in us to work for the best that is in this country. May God help us to show to China only the best that is in us!”

They stood, their heads bowed over their hands.

 

Later, watchers on the walls and upon the hills, outside the city and within, saw the face of the moon obscured by a passing black cloud. And, as the darkness fell, a golden arrow of light shot high above the walls of the Three Cities, cleaving the black cloud in twain; and following it two more.

So that when the moon came out there were no longer any watchers. But of grim-visaged men bearing arms there were many; and their faces were turned toward the violet city.

1. Tsing-jin—Chinese name for themselves—Sons of the Great Purity reign.