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Page 52
It was her throat that held him, fascinated him. White, slim,
beautiful--her heart seemed pulsing there. And he could see that heart
choke back the words she was about to speak.
"If I fail--" he repeated the words slowly after her, watching that
white, beating throat.
"There is only the one thing left for me to do. You--you--understand?"
"Yes, I understand. Therefore I shall not fail."
He backed away from her toward the door, and still he could not take
his eyes from the white throat with its beating heart. "I shall not
fail," he repeated. "And when the telephone rings, you will be here--to
answer?"
"Yes, here," she replied huskily.
He went out. Under his feet the gravelly path ran through a flood of
moonlight. Over him the sky was agleam with stars. It was a white
night, one of those wonderful gold-white nights in the land of the
Saskatchewan. Under that sky the world was alive. The little city lay
in a golden glimmer of lights. Out of it rose a murmur, a rippling
stream of sound, the voice of its life, softened by the little valley
between. Into it Keith descended. He passed men and women, laughing,
talking, gay. He heard music. The main street was a moving throng. On a
corner the Salvation Army, a young woman, a young man, a crippled boy,
two young girls, and an old man, were singing "Nearer, My God, to
Thee." Opposite the Board of Trade building on the edge of the river a
street medicine-fakir had drawn a crowd to his wagon. To the beat of
the Salvation Army's tambourine rose the thrum of a made-up negro's
banjo.
Through these things Keith passed, his eyes open, his ears listening,
but he passed swiftly. What he saw and what he heard pressed upon him
with the chilling thrill of that last swan-song, the swan-song of Ecla,
of Kobat, of Ty, who had heard their doom chanted from the
mountain-tops. It was the city rising up about his cars in rejoicing
and triumph. And it put in his heart a cold, impassive anger. He sensed
an impending doom, and yet he was not afraid. He was no longer chained
by dreams, no more restrained by self. Before his eyes, beating,
beating, beating, he saw that tremulous heart in Miriam Kirkstone's
soft, white throat.
He came to Shan Tung's. Beyond the softly curtained windows it was a
yellow glare of light. He entered and met the flow of life, the murmur
of voices and laughter, the tinkle of glasses, the scent of cigarette
smoke, and the fainter perfume of incense. And where he had seen him
last, as though he had not moved since that hour nine days ago, still
with his cigarette, still sphinx-like, narrow-eyed, watchful, stood Li
King.
Keith walked straight to him. And this time, as he approached, Li King
greeted him with a quick and subtle smile. He nipped his cigarette to
the tiled floor. He was bowing, gracious. Tonight he was not stupid.
"I have come to see Shan Tung," said Keith.
He had half expected to be refused, in which event he was prepared to
use his prerogative as an officer of the law to gain his point. But Li
King did not hesitate. He was almost eager. And Keith knew that Shan
Tung was expecting him.
They passed behind one of the screens and then behind another, until it
seemed to Keith their way was a sinuous twisting among screens. They
paused before a panel in the wall, and Li King pressed the black throat
of a long-legged, swan-necked bird with huge wings and the panel opened
and swung toward them. It was dark inside, but Li King turned on a
light. Through a narrow hallway ten feet in length he led the way,
unlocked a second door, and held it open, smiling at Keith.
"Up there," he said.
A flight of steps led upward and as Keith began to mount them the door
closed softly behind him. Li King accompanied him no further.
He mounted the steps, treading softly. At the top was another door, and
this he opened as quietly as Li King had closed the one below him.
Again the omnipresent screens, and then his eyes looked out upon a
scene which made him pause in astonishment. It was a great room, a room
fifty feet long by thirty in width, and never before had he beheld such
luxury as it contained. His feet sank into velvet carpets, the walls
were hung richly with the golds and browns and crimsons of priceless
tapestries, and carven tables and divans of deep plush and oriental
chairs filled the space before him. At the far end was a raised dais,
and before this, illumined in candleglow, was a kneeling figure. He
noticed then that there were many candles burning, that the room was
lighted by candles, and that in their illumination the figure did not
move. He caught the glint of armors standing up, warrior like, against
the tapestries, and he wondered for a moment if the kneeling figure was
a heathen god made of wood. It was then that he smelled the odor of
frankincense; it crept subtly into his nostrils and his mouth,
sweetened his breath, and made him cough.
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