There was long silence. Not an expression appeared upon either yellow countenance. Yet the words, to one who understood the Chinese temperament were filled with definite meaning.
KWA, the Living Joss! Was he a myth or a real dweller here in New York’s Chinatown? A being reputed by some to be almost a deity in human form, the followers of Kwa were a secret body who kept their beliefs to themselves.
These merchants, apparently close friends, had retired to seclusion before they dared bring up this tremendous subject. Even by themselves, they spoke in cautious tones. Neither one could be sure whether or not the other was a follower of Kwa. In Chinatown, adherence to a cause meant more than long friendship.
The merchants finished their meal. They left the restaurant still sober, and reserved. The sallow-faced listener smiled. An American familiar with the ways of Orientals, he could understand the apprehensions of the Chinamen, now that he had overheard the conversation.
For years, the powerful secret societies known as tongs had been a hidden influence in Chinatown, often rising to the surface. But here was a power greater than that of any tong — a group controlled by an unknown leader whose followers called him the Living Joss!
No wonder these merchants were perturbed. A being such as Kwa, if his claims were genuine, would have a superhuman power which he could direct against nonbelievers. On the contrary, Kwa, a pretender, could stir up fanatical underlings to a fever pitch. He could undermine the tongs themselves and plunge them into new wars from within!
The American pushed the remainder of his dish aside and strolled from the restaurant. He walked back toward the center of Chinatown. He did not see the black form that detached itself from the side of the dark building, to travel in his wake.
Two Chinamen were talking at the door of a shop. They ceased as they saw a man stop to light a cigarette; when they observed the sallow face of the American, they resumed their discourse, and the man caught a few words in Chinese lingo.
“It is said that Kwa has returned and—”
“Those who believe in Kwa—”
“None can know except those who have seen the face of Kwa, himself—”
The sallow-faced man moved along. He glanced at his watch as he came into the light of a bright but narrow street. He increased his gait to a swinging stride, but never ceased his alertness as he passed spots where Chinamen were loitering.
Again, he heard the spoken name of Kwa; later, as he picked a deserted side street on the outskirts of Chinatown, he caught the mumbled tones of an Oriental who was uttering the same mysterious title.
THE district was agog. Kwa had returned. In some unknown abode, an insidious power dwelt. Who was this unknown being who had returned to New York?
What was his mission here?
The man who had heard, thought of the shadowy streets in Chinatown. Strange menaces existed there — factors which could not exist outside of that town which seemed like a patch of the Orient transplanted to Manhattan.
A mysterious being such as Kwa could not be found elsewhere in New York — so the sallow-faced man reflected. But in that opinion he was wrong. Had he glanced behind him as he strode along, coming from an alleyway into a street beneath the elevated line, he might have glimpsed the sign of a phantom shape as amazing as any Living Joss.
Out of the shadows of Chinatown had come a Living Shadow — a weird, sinister shape which glided along in exact speed with the military stride of the departing man. A splotch of blackness, long and silhouetted in the fog-blended lights of street lamps, was following the man who had heard.
That strange shape had come to Chinatown tonight. It had crossed the path of the prowling American. It was the token of an unseen watcher in the night, one who had also learned the rumors that persisted concerning the unknown Kwa.
The Shadow, master of darkness, had watched the lips of the speaking Chinese merchants. Unobserved, The Shadow had heard the name Kwa uttered at the door of the obscure shop. Later, The Shadow had heard the remarks of other Chinamen, speaking in their native tongue as they mentioned the name of the Living Joss.
Now, spectral in the darkness, The Shadow was trailing the American who had so cleverly intruded upon Chinese conversations.
Shadows still remained in Chinatown; but The Shadow had departed, and none knew of his arrival or his departure!
CHAPTER II. THE MEETING
FOUR men were gathered about a circular table. The room in which they were seated was a built-in sun porch of a large mansion, a fact easily recognizable by the windows that flanked three sides. Behind drawn shades, the quartet was holding a quiet discussion. A vacant chair, however, signified that the group expected another member.
In the largest chair, the one which might well have constituted the head, was a weary, gray-haired man some seventy years of age. His shoulders were bowed, his face was pale, but kindly. His thin hands rested upon the edge of the table.
“Will we have to wait much longer?”
The old man asked the question in a quavering voice as he looked at his companions.
“I hope not, Mr. Schofield,” came a reply. “We will allow just a few minutes more; then we can proceed.”
The old man nodded. At that moment, a servant entered the sun porch and addressed the elderly individual.
“Doctor Zelka is here, sir.”
“Tell him to come in at once.”
The reply did not come from the old man. It was made by a middle-aged gentleman seated at his right — the same one who had made the previous remark. He evidently played the part of Schofield’s spokesman.
All eyes turned toward the door. The middle-aged gentleman arose and went in that direction. The door opened, and a sallow-faced man entered and bowed to the group as he delivered a smile intended as a greeting, despite its unpleasant twist.
“You are Doctor Ward Zelka?” questioned the middle-aged man.
“Yes,” replied the visitor, extending his hand.
“I am Westley Hartnett,” said the middle-aged man. “I am Barton Schofield’s attorney. This, Doctor Zelka, is Mr. Schofield.”
He led the visitor to the head of the table, where the old gentleman reached up to shake hands. Hartnett turned to continue the introduction.
“Blaine Goodall,” he said to Zelka. “He is the president of the Huxley Corporation.”
Zelka received the handshake of a tall, square-jawed man who had the physique of an athlete.
“And David Moultrie,” continued Hartnett.
The visitor clasped hands with a wiry individual whose teeth showed in a wide-lipped grin. David Moultrie’s countenance was chiefly mouth.
Introductions completed, Westley Hartnett conducted Doctor Ward Zelka to the empty chair. Still standing, the attorney looked about, as though suspicious of eavesdroppers. The drawn blinds reassured him. He studied the members of this group, as though preparing for an important discussion.
All looked toward Hartnett. Blaine Goodall was thoughtful; David Moultrie grinning. While old Barton Schofield still sat passively at the head of the table, Doctor Zelka drew a cigarette from his pocket and inserted it in the end of a short, goldbanded holder.
NO one noticed an imperceptible motion of one window shade. Hands from the outer darkness had raised the sash. Eyes were peering through a narrow crevice at the bottom of the blind. Unsuspected ears were listening to this conference.
The Shadow, master of the night, had arrived.
“Our discussion,” began Hartnett, “involves the affairs of the Huxley Corporation. Mr. Goodall, as president of that concern, approached my client, Mr. Barton Schofield, and requested this conference.