Once a rat crossed their path, scrambling up the rough wall to vanish in a gap between two stones; and once a toad with ruby-red eyes stared down at them from a high crevice, heavy-lidded and placid, undisturbed alike by their coming and their going.
But for these they saw no living thing, but pressed on in a lifeless quiet with only the sound of their own footfalls and their voices to break this silence that seemed of centuries.
“You’re not tired, Joan?”
“No; but we’ve gone an awful distance, haven’t we?”
“About a mile, I think,” J. D. said. “Though it’s hard to judge. If you’re tired, we’ll rest a bit.”
She shook her head. “It’s too wet, and messy, and generally unpleasant. I’d like to get out into the sunshine again as quickly as possible.”
They plodded on, careless now of the state of the shoes, walking through puddles and over dry ground alike. The tunnel was far from straight, and its floor far from level; it had been constructed in a haphazard manner, and here and there the stones bulged in the walls, admitting little drifts of clay to form low mounds reaching half across its width.
In places, too, the root of a bush or tree showed starkly, thrust from the soil between the stones, proving the tunnel ran not far below the surface of the ground. So they went on until J. D. noticed how the girl’s steps lagged, and felt the increasing weight of her hand upon his arm.
“Tired, Joan?”
Smiling, she confessed it. “Just a little.”
“Let me carry you a bit?”
“I’m not so tired as all that, thanks,” she said shyly.
“Pooh, pooh!” J. D. said, and caught her up before she guessed his intention. Then she laughed, and put one arm about his shoulders. She knew his strength, and knew he could carry her an hour before draining it more than a trifle. And she was wearier than she had admitted.
She had slept little on the journey from Shanghai, and still less the previous night. Back in Singapore and Mandalay the quest had been a joyous adventure; but now, with the end almost in sight, the threat of failure shadowed her with the fear that everything had been in vain.
But no — not everything. She had made the acquaintance of the man in whose arms she now lay so contentedly, and that counted more than she would have liked to confess to any but J. D. himself, and not even to him until he had made some confessions of his own.
He did not carry her far. The passage ended abruptly in a flight of steps similar to that they had descended, but headed with a door. He set her on her feet, whispered. “S’sh!” and went silently up the steps. A few moments he listened, his ear close to the metal-ribbed wood, then beckoned her. “Doesn’t seem to be anything doing, Joan. We’ll see if we can get through, eh?”
She nodded, and with cautious fingers he tried the door. It opened readily. Beyond it they saw a glimmer of light about the edges of a fold of heavy curtain. They passed through quietly, and the door swung shut behind them.
“I wonder—” J. D. whispered, stretching out one hand.
The curtain stirred as he touched it. It was wrenched away, and they saw the room, and the swordsman crouching there, one hand out to toss aside their cover, the other back and up, tensed with the weight of the curved blade.
J. D. dived for his legs, brought him crashing down. The sword described a glittering arc, fell point-first, and stood quivering in the floor.
The two men rolled and tumbled about it until J. D. dragged his pistol out and struck twice with the heavy barrel. He rose to his feet, alert, listening. There was no sound to indicate that the noise of the struggle had been overheard. Relaxing, he turned to the girl.
“Better be ready for anything, Joan.”
“I am,” she said, tapping the little pistol in her hand. The sparkle had come back into her eyes, and the color to her cheeks, with the imminence of danger. She looked down at the unconscious man. “What about tying him?”
“Hardly necessary,” J. D. said. “If there’s going to be trouble, we’ll have met it long before he comes to.”
They glanced about the room. It was small, barely furnished. Joan walked softly across to the window, and looked out on a corner of a garden within high walls. Beyond it, distant now, was the Plain of the Dead.
“We’re somewhere in the foothills, Dave.”
“I guessed it,” J. D. nodded, joining her. “A pretty big house, too, judging by the garden. But hadn’t we better see what’s to be seen?”
They crossed to the one door of the room other than that by which they had entered, and stood at it a moment, listening. No sound came from beyond, and, very cautiously, J. D. pushed it open.
They looked into a larger and more luxurious room. It was unoccupied. They went through it slowly, and again halted at a door to listen, their breaths stilled, their eyes intent. And as they stood, from somewhere beyond the door came a girl’s quick laugh.
“Dave, Dave!” Joan whispered. “See if that’s — Elaine. Please! I’m afraid.”
“Stay where you are, then,” J. D. said. “Shoot if anything happens, and I’ll be back in two seconds.” He pushed at the door, felt it yield, and slipped through.
III
The room in which he found himself was more beautiful than any other he had ever seen. There were treasures on its walls that American and European collectors would have given their fortunes to possess.
There were rugs on the floor worth a king’s ransom, miracles in color and sheer loveliness of conception. There were vases filled with flowers, themselves more graceful than the flowers.
There were carvings of ivory and jade, and landscape paintings by China’s Old Masters. Yet the room was not crowded. Each object stood alone, with plenty of space about it, to be judged by its own merit.
J. D. saw all this with a quick glance, then concentrated on the loveliest thing in the room.
She played with a dog little larger than her closed hand, a dog with long hair and eyes like black diamonds. It rushed at her across the carpet, and with quick movements she evaded it, or lifted it up and held it at arm’s length, or rolled it over and over gently.
Her garb was the jacket and trousers of heavy silk worn by Chinese ladies; but her hair was the purest gold, and her eyes were blue, and her cheeks had the delicate flush of roses in them. J. D. knew he had found Elaine Manville.
The old man who sat watching the girl at play was a Chinese of the Chinese. His head was covered with a skullcap scrolled in silver thread. The nails of his little fingers were sheathed in silver. His hands were long and fine, the hands of a man, but graceful as the hands of a woman.
A mustache drooped limply from the corners of his mouth, touching the breast of his silken jacket. His face in repose was calm almost to severity, wonderfully lighted by a quick fleeting smile as he watched the laughing girl.
It was the face of a man of integrity and honor, and of strength of character, second to none. It was the face of a man born to lead others, whether or not to his own good. The face of one who follows his destiny, careless of what may lie in his path.
J. D. stood there a moment unobserved, so quiet had been his entry. Then the girl saw him, and rose from her knees, putting out one hand toward the old man. The old man started, and would have struck a gong that stood beside him; but J. D. swung his pistol up.
“Quiet, Li Hung Chang!”
Li Hung Chang took the girl’s hand, caressed it reassuringly. “Who are you?”
“One who has followed the trail of the Soapstone Buddhas,” J. D. said.
No trace of emotion showed on the old man’s face. It seemed as if the treasure he had hidden was no more to him than to the tiny dog which sniffed about his feet.