“Me lookee. Me see. Maybe Wang Foo comee home.”
“All right,” declared Vincent impatiently. “Make it snappy.”
The Celestial tapped on the upper panel of the door. It opened inward. Vincent was startled for a moment, then he saw that it was a simple sort of trap opening that he had not noticed in the darkness.
The Chinaman spoke in his native tongue.
A mumbled reply came from within the door. The Chinaman answered, and there was a conversation of three or four minutes. The trap closed; the Chinaman stepped away, and the door opened to admit Vincent.
The visitor stepped into darkness and found himself at the foot of a flight of stairs. A large heavily built Chinaman was before him, scarcely visible in the darkness. The Mongol spoke in English.
“Come.”
Vincent went up the steps, which were almost pitch-dark. The guide was a few feet ahead, his light-colored robe enabling the American to follow. At the top of the steps there was a turn, and Vincent emerged with the Chinaman into an entryway that was lighted by a single, low-turned gas jet. A massive door of teakwood blocked the way.
The Chinese guide knocked four times.
The door opened and the big Chinaman motioned Vincent to enter. The door closed behind him.
After all the squalor he had seen downstairs, Vincent was amazed by the room in which he now stood. It was a square room, fairly large, and exquisitely furnished. The wall was draped with huge tapestries covered with golden dragons embroidered on black backgrounds.
The room was dimly lighted, but evidently electricity was used, the lamps being masked behind silken shades. Furniture of all descriptions was about the room; beautiful, thick Chinese rugs covered the floor.
The smell of incense came to Vincent, and he noted a burner, shaped in the form of a tiny temple, that stood on a taboret in one corner.
At the far side of the room was a sort of desk, with huge thick legs that ended at the bottom in dragon claws. Behind this odd piece of furniture sat an ancient Chinaman. He wore a crimson tunic that buttoned tight about his neck, which bore a golden dragon upon its front. The Chinaman wore thick, heavy spectacles, and blinked slowly as he looked impassively at his visitor.
Vincent stood for a moment in real surprise; then he suddenly remembered his mission. It was advisable that he should express no amazement in this room.
He assumed a matter-of-fact pose and walked deliberately across the floor to the desk where the old Chinaman sat.
He knew that this must be Wang Foo, the tea merchant. There was no need for introduction. Gaining confidence, Vincent reached into his vest pocket, removed the disk with the Chinese characters, and exhibited it on the palm of his hand, which he thrust close to the Chinaman’s eyes.
Wang Foo nodded knowingly.
He rose and bowed.
Vincent returned the bow and dropped the disk back into his vest pocket.
Old Wang Foo tottered across the room. Vincent watched him curiously as Wang Foo went to a miniature pagoda standing in a corner near the door.
As the Chinaman stooped and pressed a secret spring in the pagoda, his visitor noticed a strange occurrence. The shadow of the old Chinaman seemed to lengthen, across the floor and up the wall.
Startled, Vincent looked all about him, suspecting that some other person was in the room.
He saw only the black tapestries, which were motionless.
When Vincent looked at Wang Foo the old Chinaman had turned, and was holding two articles in his hands: one a large sealed package, the other a small teakwood box.
Vincent advanced to receive the package, but the Chinaman brushed by him and returned to the desk.
Seated there, he laid both objects on the table. He pressed his right hand upon the package as though to draw it to him, and with his left he pushed the little box across the table.
“Unlock,” said Wang Foo.
“Unlock what?” asked Vincent.
The sound of the voices seemed ominous in the midst of the curtained room.
“The box,” said Wang Foo.
Vincent was puzzled.
“How can I unlock the box?” he demanded.
The old Chinaman leaned back in his chair and stared through his heavy glasses.
“With the key,” he said slowly.
Vincent did not reply.
“You have the key?” questioned Wang Foo quietly.
His visitor remained silent.
“Strange,” murmured the old Chinaman, and Vincent wondered at the excellence of his English. “Strange. You have no key. No key from my friend, Wu Sun. Yet Wu Sun sent you?”
The name was unfamiliar to Vincent. He was on the point or nodding, but suddenly feared that he might betray himself. He looked steadily at Wang Foo, seeking some clew as to the answer he should give, but the old Mongol’s face stayed impassive.
“No key from Wu Sun,” said Wang Foo, calmly. “My friend, Wu Sun, has sent his men before; always with that same disk - the token of Hoang-Ho - which you carry.
“But I sent a message to Wu Sun, six months ago. I said: ‘It is not the part of wisdom to rely upon one token only. Here is the key to a little box. Let the messenger carry it, and unlock the box for me. Then I shall know it is the true messenger.’”
The slow, cold, monotonous words of the old Chinaman thrust terror into Vincent’s heart. But he steadied himself and became quite calm as he shrugged his shoulders, and replied:
“Wu Sun said nothing to me about a key. He gave me the token only. He must have forgotten the key.”
Wang Foo pointed one finger upward.
“Wu Sun never forgets,” he announced.
The uplifted finger turned and pointed straight at Vincent. The significance of it suddenly dawned upon the visitor. It was a signal!
Vincent turned quickly, but he was too late. From the tapestries at the sides of the room, two giant Chinamen had already emerged.
Before he could raise a hand to resist, Vincent was stretched upon the floor, his arms pinned behind his back, and his feet bound with leather thongs!
CHAPTER IX
THE ROOM OF DOOM
VINCENT had been lying for a full hour on the floor of Wang Foo’s elegant den. His hands and feet were bound with leather straps that would not yield; a silken gag prevented him from crying out for help.
The old tea merchant paid no more attention to him than if he had been a part of the furnishings of the room. Vincent could watch the bespectacled Mongol as he wrote at his desk. Wang Foo was a mild-appearing Chinaman, but nothing in his actions brought hope to the captive American.
The Chinese disk - the token of Hoang-Ho - had been taken from Vincent’s pocket, but he had not been injured in any way.
What would Wang Foo do next? Vincent had pondered upon the question ever since his capture. There seemed to be no answer.
At last, after minutes that seemed endless, Wang Foo arose from his desk and walked with tottering steps to a corner where Vincent could see a Chinese gong. The aged Celestial tapped the gong four times. Instantly, the two huge Chinese reappeared from behind the tapestries.
“Clever old chap,” said Vincent to himself. “Has two strong men always ready. The place looked harmless enough when I came in.”
Wang Foo pointed a birdlike claw toward the prostrate captive helpless on the floor. Without further ado, the two yellow giants lifted Vincent, and carried him to the door. Wang Foo opened it for them.
In the hallway, as though by secret understanding, they were joined by the Chinaman who had first met Vincent in the shop and who had guided him to Wang Foo’s apartment. He it was who took the lead, jangling a ring of large, brass keys. The two with Vincent for burden, followed. Wang Foo brought up the rear.
The party proceeded up a steep, side stairway which Vincent had not observed upon his arrival. The Celestial with the keys unlocked door after door for them. There were many doors, and the unlocking of each was made a little ceremony.