That slow walk to the tea chests; the sleep oblivion that had followed it; the promises that Noy Dow had spoken — all drifted through Harry’s brain. Realization followed. He knew where he and Cliff must be. This was the promised destination, the home of the mandarin, Shan Kwan.
Cliff was propping himself on one elbow. He grinned at Harry, proving that he, too, had guessed their new location. Both men were fully dressed save for their coats, vests and shoes. Rising from their couches, they found those garments resting on quaint taborets.
“How do we get out of here?” questioned Cliff.
“Try the gong,” suggested Harry, indicating the center of the brass door, which was shaped like a rounded bell target. “That’s a hammer, there, isn’t it?”
The latter object was hanging by the door. Cliff went over, examined it; then used the hammer to clang against the brazen circle. He stepped back as the door clicked. A bowing Chinaman appeared as the portal slid open.
THIS fellow was clad in yellow robes with crimson trimmings. He must have been a chief steward or some such officer, for when he clapped his hands and babbled in Chinese, scurrying footsteps answered. Two lesser Chinamen appeared carrying bowls and towels. They set these objects on taborets and went away, to return soon afterward carrying teakwood chairs.
The bowing steward motioned for Harry and Cliff to seat themselves. The servants produced razors and brushes. The guests removed their neckties and the two Chinamen proceeded to act as barbers. Harry grinned at Cliff through a wealth of foamy lather.
“That sleep helped the whiskers grow,” chuckled Harry. “This shave is going to feel good. I guess we’ll be in for breakfast next. I won’t feel sorry.”
“I’m mighty hungry,” returned Cliff. “I guess it must be the middle of the morning. Say,” — he raised his head to address the steward — “you tellee timee? Gottee watchee? Clockee?”
The robed man bowed, apparently understanding. He produced a massive gold timepiece and held it so both could see. Cliff noted that it was quarter after nine. With a relieved smile, he settled back to let the Chinese barber complete the shave.
Harry, too, was pleased. He knew that the tea chests were to have been removed very early. They had probably been taken away by half past seven and the trip here must have been a short one. A few hours of stretched slumber had apparently served to counteract the kinks caused by huddling in the tea chests. Harry was feeling quite limber; and Cliff looked the same.
Shan Kwan had been fully thoughtful of his guests’ comfort. It was not long before Cliff and Harry were following the steward along a passage, en route to meet the mandarin. They noted the mellow light of this corridor; and they observed several doors of brass that indicated other rooms like their own.
This corridor was wide; so were others that they entered. Various hallways formed a maze, all softly glowing with indirect lights; and as they proceeded on their way, the two guests realized that they could not hope to find the return path without a guide.
The steward was familiar with this silent, deserted honeycomb of corridors. He brought them finally to one where they observed two wide-swung doors of brass; beyond that portal a room with brazen walls. Golden-hued screens were visible in that room, with a square teakwood pedestal upon the thick-rugged floor. They were passing the tiny temple that Shan Kwan had shown Raymond Roucard.
The guide unlocked the door at the end of this corridor. Harry and Cliff followed him up the stairs. They reached another door; it was opened, and the steward bowed them through. Passing curtains, the guests stopped short, lost in awe of the new room that they had entered.
All about were gorgeous dragon tapestries. Luxurious rugs covered the floor; teakwood furnishings were in abundance. The very center of the room was occupied by a large table, with seats for four. Upon it were plates and goblets of solid gold. Choice fruits and viands were visible, in bowls of the same metal.
A man was seated at the table. He rose as Harry and Cliff entered. His robes were of vivid crimson; his saffron face was wreathed with a pleasant smile. The arrivals needed no introduction. They knew that this must be Shan Kwan the Mandarin.
“I GREET YOU,” stated the host, with a profound bow. “As my guests you are welcome. Pray, join me, and hold repast with Shan Kwan, the Mandarin.”
The guests approached the table; Shan Kwan motioned them to the seats at the sides. A voice came from the doorway; the two men turned about to see Loy Ming enter the room. The mandarin’s niece was smiling her welcome as she took the chair opposite her uncle. When she was seated, Shan Kwan bowed. Harry and Cliff sat down; and Shan Kwan followed suit.
Servants entered promptly. They served the luscious fruits and filled the goblets with liquid from sparkling decanters. As those at the table began to eat, one servant went about igniting incense burners. Pale, tantalizing smoke trailed upward to perfume the air.
While the guests still sniffed the exotic aroma, a sound reached their ears. It was music, from some hidden source, with tones that formed a softened melody.
Plucking of zither vied with tinkling bells; though the harmony seemed to be of mechanical origin, its lightened tones were captivating. Once begun, that music seemed as necessary to the ear as light was to the eye. It formed a gentle rhythm that was soothing, more and more with each succeeding strain.
Shan Kwan spoke. His words were audible above the tinkling tones. His voice became melodious because of its accompaniment. Harry and Cliff listened while they leisurely sipped sweet-tasting liquid and drew long breaths to gain the perfume of the incense.
“My humble abode is yours,” announced Shan Kwan. “You are welcome to remain so long as you may choose. Until now, your stay has been a short one. I should indeed be honored if you decide to prolong your sojourn.
“Yet you may wish to be soon on your way. The day is still young; you may have work to do. So I shall not burden you with long discussion. I shall be brief with the questions that I have to ask; and I shall be pleased to have you answer. Should there be questions that you do not choose to answer, we shall forget them.”
Shan Kwan paused. He stroked his chin in solemn fashion. There was no eagerness in his expression; his manner indicated that he was anxious not to embarrass his guests by asking them too much.
“You were prisoners,” remarked the mandarin, at length. “Prisoners captured by Doctor Tam. Are you in the service of some one who is a foe of Doctor Tam?”
Cliff looked at Harry, who took a sip from his goblet, then replied:
“I do not know. We are in a service, yes; but we had never encountered Tam before. Nor had we ever heard of him.”
“Your services, then, is opposed to those who deal in evil?”
“Yes. That, I suppose, would account for Doctor Tam’s enmity.”
Cliff had finished his goblet; a servant filled it for him, while Harry, as spokesman, waited for Shan Kwan’s next question.
“You have heard,” inquired the mandarin, “of an idol from the temple of Je Ho, called the Fate Joss?”
Harry deliberated, then answered: “Yes, I have heard of it.”
“Could you tell me,” questioned Shan Kwan, “if the Fate Joss is now in the hands of Doctor Tam?”
“That is a difficult question,” replied Harry. “I doubt that Doctor Tam holds the Fate Joss; but—”
“He can’t have it, Harry,” put in Cliff. “You know that Tam could not have guessed that we had come from the—”