AT last the chanting ended. The Malays rose, “X” among them. Each went first to the idol, bowed down, fingered the jewels. Agent “X” followed the example of the others, but when his turn came to bow he stared keenly at the glittering heap before him. Then he caught his breath, bent forward sharply.
These jewels were not real! They were cleverly made paste imitations. The green-masked high priest was tricking his followers, keeping the real gems himself.
The Malays seized the dead sheep then. They carried it out of the chamber into another smaller room. Here they removed their masks. Their faces no longer showed the rapture of devil-worshiping fanatics. They looked with brutish appetite on the sheep, and drawing knives from the wall they began cutting it up.
On a huge charcoal brazier they roasted the pieces and ate with savage gusto. Here were men who had been taught by their master to wear European clothes, but they were still savages at heart. There was something horrible about their ravenous, smacking greed as they fell upon the sheep. Again, as when they had snatched the jewels that evening, they reminded “X” of hungry vultures. But now the flesh they ate was real.
One by one they began to nod drowsily after eating. The hashish was still heavy in their blood. Their heads nodded. Sleep overcame them, stretched them out on the floor.
It was then that “X” rose and slipped from the room, ready to risk death to find Betty Dale. He knew that he hadn’t long. These men, closely resembling animals, would sleep like animals. In a short time they would waken. Any unusual sound would rouse them now.
Agent “X” stole into the room where the idol was. He examined the jewels for a moment, verifying what he had glimpsed. They were every one paste. He found the trapdoor through which the bomor had disappeared, tried to lift it. It was fastened on the under side. It must lead to some secret passage. The followers of the green devil god had probably never seen their bomor’s face.
Agent “X” hunted for another door. But there was none in this room. He went back into the smoky corridor where they had first entered. Here, a door led into another passageway.
Silent, tense, he began systematically searching every room of the old warehouse. He came upon one filled with rusty machinery, relics of the World War. Then at last he saw a faint light ahead.
He moved forward more stealthily still, pushed open a door, and caught his breath.
The light came from a smoky lamp. In its gleam a girl sat upright in a rickety old desk chair, bound hand and foot. It was Betty Dale, and at the same moment he saw her, her eyes riveted upon him and dilated with fright. Before he could stop her, or indicate who he was, her lips opened and she gave a piercing scream that echoed startlingly through the whole great building.
Chapter XVI
AGENT “X” leaped forward tensely, and as he did so he made motions in the air, indicating the letter X. He put a finger on his lips for silence.
Betty Dale’s face turned white as death. A great trembling seized her. She stared at the man before her with amazement. Agent “X” had come to her in many disguises, but never one seemingly as impossible as this. Her lips framed words, words that were almost a moan.
“My God — it can’t be! It can’t be!”
“It is, Betty!” The Agent’s voice was low, vibrant. He knew what catastrophe that one scream of hers might cause. She, too, realized. Her eyes held infinite remorse.
“I didn’t mean to — I was frightened. I thought—”
“I understand, Betty!”
The Agent drew a knife from his pocket, stepped forward, then paused. He was about to sever the ropes that held her. But quavers of her scream still echoed. A confused hubbub followed it. His worst fears had been realized.
“They are coming,” Betty said hoarsely. “Go quickly — before they find you here.”
The Agent meditated. He wasn’t afraid for himself. Long ago he had cast out fear. But Betty’s life depended on his own actions. If the green mask fiend discovered his real identity, Betty would pay for it in a way too ghastly to contemplate. If he freed her now there would be questions.
His mind worked swiftly. The hubbub in the building had grown silent now. The silence was ominous. He knew that sinister forms were running through dark chambers and corridors toward them. He came close, spoke hoarsely.
“They must not learn who I am, Betty. Everything depends on that. Scream! Scream again!”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered brokenly.
“You will. It is too late to try to escape now. Scream, Betty — now! It is the only way.”
The Agent’s orders were as law to Betty Dale. She trusted him. He had never failed her yet. She didn’t know what desperate plan he contemplated. But she screamed again loudly. The Agent raised his hands above her as though to clamp strangling fingers around her white neck.
“Again!” he commanded. “Scream!”
A second piercing cry tore from her lips. The brown men heard it. They plunged through the door, knives gleaming in their hands. They paused, animal faces intent on Betty Dale, who crouched as though in fear of the man before her. The Agent lowered his clawlike hands, cringed back, and stared at them.
The man who was their leader, next to the green-masked bomor, advanced.
“What is this?” he demanded in Malay.
The Agent did not answer. He made his body tremble. He did not meet the headman’s eye. Betty’s life depended on his acting now. He seemed a cringing Malay, caught where he should not have been found. When at last he spoke it was hoarsely, and Betty Dale started as the strange Malay words came from his lips — words unintelligible to her.
“This girl is one of the white devils,” said Agent “X.” “I was going to kill her.”
The headman looked at him sternly, doubtingly.
“Did not the great bomor say she was to be left alone?”
Agent “X” hung his head. The other continued.
“It was because of her beauty that you came here. Do not lie. You have gone against the vows of Tuan. You have sought the company of a white devil woman. You have sought company of one who is taboo.”
A fanatical light glittered in the headman’s eyes. He lifted bony hands toward the ceiling.
“Tuan, here is one who has broken his word to thee. Here is a foolish one who must be punished.”
BETTY DALE’S eyes sought those of the Agent. Words trembled on her lips. He silenced her with a movement of his hand behind his back. The Malay headman came forward, seizing Agent “X” by the arm.
“Come,” he said. “Leave the chamber of this white devil woman. It is for our bomor to make the decision of what shall be done with her. When the time comes to dispose of her, he will so order it. She will suffer — but the hour is not come. It is you who must suffer now. It is you who must die first.”
Die! The Agent was glad Betty could not understand. Her fear for him might have made her forget. She might have cried out. He walked quickly to the headman’s side. He bowed his face.
“I come,” he said. “I yield to Tuan’s will.”
He dared not give even a backward glance at Betty. His heart was pounding fast. He would rather die than have them learn he was not what he seemed. If that should happen, their fanatical, idol-worshiping fury would include the girl.
They led him back along the way he had come. The Malays around him set up a slow and terrible chant.
“The wrath of Tuan is mighty! O great is the strength of Tuan! Swift is the punishment of Tuan!”
The light of fanaticism spread to their faces, also. Barbarians under the skin, emotion swayed them. This man had broken his vow to the hideous green idol. This man must die. Agent “X” sensed the cruelty of innate sadism in their voices and expressions.