Cleve had seen men fall, virtually unhurt, under similar circumstances. He had often seen wounded men rise and run. Foy must have escaped almost unscathed, for the crouching, sneaky Chinaman was back at Ling Soo’s as capable as ever.
Cleve’s eyes looked over the city. There he saw a flashing light that shone above a dull glow. He recognized it by its crawling lines — the sign over the Mukden Theater. That was where Cleve would be tonight — in the lobby of that very theater.
Darley was back. He was speaking as he stood beside Cleve, also gazing toward the lights of distant Chinatown.
“Eight o’clock,” said Darley.
Two tiny green specks appeared in the luminous circle above the Mukden Theater sign. Only Darley noticed them, for Cleve was rising from his chair. Those specks were shining globes of light, showing from the distance like the pupils of two emerald eyes.
“I should be downtown now,” remarked Darley. “Let us go.”
The two men chatted as they rode through the night. Cleve alighted at a corner near his hotel. Beneath the glare of a street light, he stood beside the door and waved good-by to Darley.
Cleve’s face was in full view — plain in the light. Every feature was visible to Darley. There, on the center of Cleve’s forehead, Darley noted a tiny spot of red. It flared in vivid crimson, like a blot of blood.
The limousine drew away. Cleve stood alone. Darley had not mentioned the spot that he had seen; so Cleve was still unconscious of it.
He did not know that his forehead bore the same mark that Stephen Laird had carried that night on the Mountain Limited.
That mark was the mark of death!
CHAPTER XVI
MOY CHEN FAILS
ACCUSTOMED, as Cleve Branch was, to the atmosphere of Chinatown, he felt uneasy tonight as he trod his way along the narrow, hilly street. This district seemed more sinister than ever.
Perhaps the chill air from the bay was responsible. That air betokened an approaching fog, that would be thick when morning dawned. Already a vague mist seemed to be settling through Chinatown.
Each alley that Cleve passed was gloomy — a place for hidden eyes. The very doors between the lighted shops were lurking spots.
As Cleve walked by a placid Chinaman, pipe-smoking at the door of a store, he fancied that he saw the fellow watching him.
Why this thought of prying eyes? If they were watching Cleve Branch, they would gain nothing; for soon Cleve Branch would be a lost identity, replaced by Hugo Barnes. Yet all Chinatown seemed alert tonight, Cleve thought as he walked along.
The explanation, had Cleve known it, was on his own forehead. There, beneath the glow of every light he passed, gleamed a spot that told a story.
It was a secret of the Wu-Fan — known to the most trusted Chinese members only. The mark of death — the mark that meant its bearer should be watched!
No matter what guise he might assume, Cleve would not be able to avoid those stealthy looks from almond eyes, unless he covered up the telltale spot.
Cleve Branch and Hugo Barnes would be alike tonight. Both, men who would be watched!
This had begun the night before. When Cleve had touched the brass dragon and placed his finger on his forehead, he had applied the secret charm.
It was the method of Ling Soo, the crafty leader of the Wu-Fan. So did he mark the men whose lives he sought.
An invisible paste, spread upon the surface of the metal dragon, had reached the forehead of Hugo Barnes. Within an hour after its application, the bloodlike spot had come there. It had shown on Cleve Branch, too, when he had appeared as himself instead of Hugo Barnes!
Since then, members of the Wu-Fan had been watching. Clever, shrewd and stealthy, they had not missed a single move which Cleve Branch had made!
The sight of that mark meant that quick reports must be given of every place the marked man went. All with whom he communicated, likewise, must be named.
Reports were even now on the way to Ling Soo, that the leader might issue orders to his secret followers. The eyes of Ling Soo were everywhere!
It was strange, Cleve thought, as he strode along, that with all these impressions of concealed observers, he saw no traces of The Shadow. He had fancied, last night, that the mysterious man had been in Ling Soo’s anteroom. But he had been mistaken. Only Ling Soo and Foy had been there.
CLEVE was approaching the Hoang-Ho Cafe. He reached the side entrance. There he paused. Despite the creepy feeling of watchers from the darkness, he hurried up the stairs and gained the door to Moy Chen’s hidden room.
Cleve knew the secret of that door, now — a certain lightly tapped signal, a moment of waiting, and the way would be clear.
Eagerly waiting by the door, he listened for all sounds. He fancied that someone might be creeping up the stairs by which he had come. Cleve was about to return and look. Then the door slid open, and he stepped to the passage. A few moments later he had reached the security of Moy Chen’s windowless sanctum.
It was nearly nine o’clock now. An hour before the meeting time!
To Moy Chen, seated at his desk, Cleve signified that he intended to assume his disguise. The two men went into the other room.
As Moy Chen applied the make-up to Cleve’s face, he remarked upon the tiny spot he saw on the agent’s forehead. Cleve surveyed it in a mirror.
“Wonder where I got that?” he said. “Blot it out, Moy Chen, when you put on the eyebrows.”
But, somehow, the mark would not blot. All applications that Moy Chen made failed to cover it effectually. Moy Chen arranged the heavy eyebrows, and found that he could diminish the mark, even though he could not obliterate it.
Cleve, looking in the mirror, decided that the makeshift would do. It was better than too much disguise.
“Tonight, Moy Chen,” explained Cleve, “I attend a meeting of the inner group of the Wu-Fan. I may encounter danger, although I now believe that such is unlikely.”
Moy Chen nodded.
“I am to be taken to the meeting place. I will not find the man who is to lead me until ten o’clock. You have been nearly fifteen minutes with my make-up. I will be out of here before half past nine.”
“That will leave one half hour,” said Moy Chen solemnly.
“A half an hour for you, Moy Chen,” declared Cleve. “I know your connection here. I was told that if I needed immediate assistance, you could arrange for it.”
“I can.”
“Very well,” said Cleve. “Have two men at the Mukden Theater by ten o’clock. Two men who can trail me to the meeting place.”
“I shall arrange that,” said Moy Chen.
“I have been working alone,” said Cleve, “with this very purpose in mind. The other men will not be linked with Hugo Barnes. They will have no difficulty in trailing me.”
Cleve slipped into the suit he wore when acting the part of Barnes. He drew his stub-nosed revolver from his pocket and examined the loaded chambers.
“If I encounter trouble,” he said grimly, “I’ll give those fellows something to think about. A shot will be the signal for the men who are trailing me. That’s understood?”
“Yes,” said Moy Chen.
Cleve had spoken in his own voice. Now he dropped into the character of Hugo Barnes.
Accompanied by Moy Chen, he made his way to the shop. He talked with the merchant, as they stood by the door. Then Cleve was on his way, confident that no one could penetrate his disguise.
MOY CHEN watched him from the door. Keen though the Chinaman’s vision was, he did not see the lurking form that spotted Hugo Barnes as the departing man went by an alley.
Had Moy Chen continued to watch, he might have seen a sneaking Celestial pick up the trail. For the mark on the forehead of Cleve Branch was now visible on Hugo Barnes, whenever he walked by a lighted spot along the street.