WHILE Chon Look was quietly engaged in his pretended shrine, Soy Foon was also contemplative. The Chinese merchant was in the rear room of his shop; and there he, too, was considering the power of Kwa.
Soy Foon was conducting a legitimate business. In every way, he did his utmost to keep his shop in proper order, and to make it look like a place of normal trade.
For Soy Foon had a more dangerous work than Chon Look. The front of his shop was the blind. The rear was a rendezvous for certain Chinamen who were of questionable character.
Like Chon Look, Soy Foon stayed within beck and call of Kwa. An electric light upon the wall of Soy Foon’s shop served as the signal. When that light glimmered, it meant that Kwa demanded an interview.
Such a light, Soy Foon knew, was also placed upon the wall of Chon Look’s shrine.
At present, Soy Foon’s light was extinguished. That was because Kwa no longer needed him tonight. The inner temple was empty. Kwa had gone. But others were coming — here, to this back room of the shop — and even while Soy Foon waited, a light tapping marked the arrival of those whom he expected.
The merchant opened a rear door. Two yellow-faced men entered the dim light of the little room. Both were dressed in American clothes, and might easily have concealed their Chinese identity by keeping in the semidarkness.
These men formed a remarkable contrast. One was tall, heavy-built, and stalwart — a giant when compared with Chinese of average stature. The other was a short, wiry creature of scarcely more than dwarfish proportions.
The huge man had a flat, expressionless face that bore several wide, reddish scars. These were the marks from tong battles in which he had participated. His latent strength was apparent in his actions.
Soy Foon gazed at him with a pleased grin. This fellow was well fitted to serve Kwa. For the powerful Chinaman was one who could summon other henchmen of his own. He was known as Koy Shan, the Mighty.
Soy Foon’s almond eyes turned toward the dwarfish man who accompanied Koy Shan. Here, Soy Foon observed a shrewd, leering face — a countenance that betokened both stealth and swiftness.
The lightness of the little man’s body was emphasized by the greater proportions of his arms and legs. He seemed like a yellow spider, ready to crawl upon its prey.
Here, too, was one who would do well for Kwa. This distorted creature was the one whom Soy Foon had termed Chun Shi, the Crafty.
The Chinese merchant faced this pair of ruffians, and began to speak in singsong lingo. His words brought evil smiles to the faces of Koy Shan and Chun Shi.
“Kwa has spoken.” Such was the gist of Soy Foon’s talk. “He states that the time is here. Each of you must serve. Great work lies before you. When your tasks have been accomplished, you will receive the rewards of Kwa.”
The grinning faces leered.
“Where might is needed,” continued Soy Foon, “Koy Shan will be the one to serve great Kwa. Where craft is required, Chun Shi will perform the duty. That is all. Each may return at the hour which I have appointed. When Kwa speaks again, one of you will be called upon to act.”
The evil-faced Chinamen bowed. They did not repeat the name of Kwa. That privilege belonged only to one like Soy Foon — a favorite who had actually met the Living Joss face to face.
Both Koy Shan and Chun Shi hoped that their reward would be promotion to the inner group — those members of the secret band of followers who were allowed to speak with Kwa himself.
Soy Foon returned the bow. Koy Shan and Chun Shi departed. The merchant was alone. A slow smile appeared upon his bland face. Soy Foon was pleased.
Like Chon Look, the Buddhist, Soy Foon, the merchant, was sure that he was worthy of the confidence given by Kwa.
Important service lay ahead. Kwa had prepared!
Koy Shan and Chun Shi had their orders. Hugo Urvin, too, had his instructions. Kwa was about to strike — where, no one knew.
CHAPTER VII. A CHANCE CALL
WESTLEY HARTNETT was seated in the living room of his apartment. The lawyer was at work upon a report which he had promised to prepare for Barton Schofield. This report concerned the condition of the Huxley Corporation.
Doctor Ward Zelka had spoken wisely when he had remarked to David Moultrie that Hartnett might reconsider his opinion. Here, on this evening, the attorney was studying the possible exigencies that might occur, should Moultrie choose to go ahead with his schemes.
Westley Hartnett had been sincere when he had spoken of Barton Schofield’s integrity. The lawyer was a man well suited to the trust which the retired banker had bestowed upon him. Nevertheless, Hartnett was doing exactly what Zelka had predicted. He was balancing integrity against financial interests.
The lawyer continued his methodical work with the papers before him. Suddenly, he smacked his fist upon the documents and seized the telephone. He dialed a number; when the reply came, he asked to speak to Barton Schofield.
The old man’s voice came over the wire. Hartnett began with an apology for his call at this late hour. It was only nine o’clock, but that was past Schofield’s usual bedtime. When the banker’s weary voice had responded to the apology, Hartnett made the statement that was on his mind.
“This Huxley case,” he declared. “There’ll be money lost if you stay out, Mr. Schofield. I’ve been worrying about it — worrying a great deal. Nevertheless, I still favor our stand. Shall we make it final?”
The lawyer listened intently. His face glowed as he received commending words from Barton Schofield.
When the call was ended, Westley Hartnett arose and stood proudly beside his desk.
He was glad that he had stood by his first decision. Let the crooked manipulator and the stock-holding physician do what they pleased. Westley Hartnett, as Schofield’s attorney, could never agree to participate in their shady dealings.
The lawyer admired Barton Schofield. The old banker could easily have acquired a million dollars as his share of the unearned profits. Moultrie and Zelka would gladly have granted him that amount. But, with integrity involved, Schofield preferred to lose the opportunity for gain.
Moreover, he was willing to sacrifice his present holdings in Huxley shares, should Moultrie, in spirit of vengefulness, knock the bottom out of the stock value.
It was final. The lawyer and his important client saw eye to eye in this important matter. Schofield’s support had completely ended all indecision on Hartnett’s part. The old man had spoken with a firmness that seemed a momentary flashback to his days of business activitiy.
THE telephone rang. Hartnett answered it. The call was from the lobby. The doorman announced that a gentleman named Hugo Urvin was calling.
A perplexed frown appeared upon the lawyer’s face. He said that the visitor could come up; but after he had hung up the receiver, Hartnett wondered why this young man had come to see him.
When Urvin appeared, the lawyer greeted him with a quizzical expression. Urvin smiled as he extended his hand. He asked if Hartnett could spare the time for a short visit.
Hartnett nodded and waved the visitor to a chair. The lawyer sat down beside the desk, where he had dropped his briefcase over the records that referred to the Huxley Corporation.
“Hope I haven’t disturbed you,” began Urvin affably. “I called your office this afternoon — but you had gone. I wanted to ask you about some legal matters. You are the one attorney whom I know among my friends.”
“We have met,” returned Hartnett. “Our meetings, however, can scarcely be termed an acquaintanceship.”
“That is true,” smiled Urvin. “We have usually seen each other at the Union Club. But the real reason why I chose to call upon you tonight was because of our meeting at the home of Barton Schofield.”