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Page 29
In another moment Keith had opened the box. Inside was a carefully
folded slip of paper, and on this paper was written a single line.
Keith's heart stopped beating, and his blood ran cold as he read what
it held for him, a message of doom from Shan Tung in nine words:
"WHAT HAPPENED TO DERWENT CONNISTON? DID YOU KILL HIM?"
XI
Stunned by a shock that for a few moments paralyzed every nerve center
in his body, John Keith stood with the slip of white paper in his
hands. He was discovered! That was the one thought that pounded like a
hammer in his brain. He was discovered in the very hour of his triumph
and exaltation, in that hour when the world had opened its portals of
joy and hope for him again and when life itself, after four years of
hell, was once more worth the living. Had the shock come a few hours
before, he would have taken it differently. He was expecting it then.
He had expected it when he entered McDowell's office the first time. He
was prepared for it afterward. Discovery, failure, and death were
possibilities of the hazardous game he was playing, and he was
unafraid, because he had only his life to lose, a life that was not
much more than a hopeless derelict at most. Now it was different. Mary
Josephine had come like some rare and wonderful alchemy to transmute
for him all leaden things into gold. In a few minutes she had upset the
world. She had literally torn aside for him the hopeless chaos in which
he saw himself struggling, flooding him with the warm radiance of a
great love and a still greater desire. On his lips he could feel the
soft thrill of her good-night kiss and about his neck the embrace of
her soft arms. She had not gone to sleep yet. Across in the other room
she was thinking of him, loving him; perhaps she was on her knees
praying for him, even as he held in his fingers Shan Tung's mysterious
forewarning of his doom.
The first impulse that crowded in upon him was that of flight, the
selfish impulse of personal salvation. He could get away. The night
would swallow him up. A moment later he was mentally castigating
himself for the treachery of that impulse to Mary Josephine. His
floundering senses began to readjust themselves.
Why had Shan Tung given him this warning? Why had he not gone straight
to Inspector McDowell with the astounding disclosure of the fact that
the man supposed to be Derwent Conniston was not Derwent Conniston, but
John Keith, the murderer of Miriam Kirkstone's father?
The questions brought to Keith a new thrill. He read the note again. It
was a definite thing stating a certainty and not a guess. Shan Tung had
not shot at random. He knew. He knew that he was not Derwent Conniston
but John Keith. And he believed that he had killed the Englishman to
steal his identity. In the face of these things he had not gone to
McDowell! Keith's eyes fell upon the card again. "With the compliments
of Shan Tung." What did the words mean? Why had Shan Tung written them
unless--with his compliments--he was giving him a warning and the
chance to save himself?
His immediate alarm grew less. The longer he contemplated the slip of
paper in his hand, the more he became convinced that the inscrutable
Shan Tung was the last individual in the world to stage a bit of
melodrama without some good reason for it. There was but one conclusion
he could arrive at. The Chinaman was playing a game of his own, and he
had taken this unusual way of advising Keith to make a getaway while
the going was good. It was evident that his intention had been to avoid
the possibility of a personal discussion of the situation. That, at
least, was Keith's first impression.
He turned to examine the window. There was no doubt that Shan Tung had
come in that way. Both the sill and curtain bore stains of water and
mud, and there was wet dirt on the floor. For once the immaculate
oriental had paid no attention to his feet. At the door leading into
the big room Keith saw where he had stood for some time, listening,
probably when McDowell and Mary Josephine were in the outer room
waiting for him. Suddenly his eyes riveted themselves on the middle
panel of the door. Brady had intended his color scheme to be old
ivory--the panel itself was nearly white--and on it Shan Tung had
written heavily with a lead pencil the hour of his presence, "10.45
P.M." Keith's amazement found voice in a low exclamation. He looked at
his watch. It was a quarter-hour after twelve. He had returned to the
Shack before ten, and the clever Shan Tung was letting him know in this
cryptic fashion that for more than three-quarters of an hour he had
listened at the door and spied upon him and Mary Josephine through the
keyhole.
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