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“It was nothing,” he said, but she noticed that he still kept his voice down. “I thought I heard somebody following us. I’ll have these trees down tomorrow; they make too good cover–-“

Something came past them with the sound of a hissing whip. There was a thud, and silence. He said something in a strange language, and then he stepped back and, reaching up, pulled something from the trunk of a fir.

“A throwing knife,” he whispered. “I tell you, these Yun Nan murderers are wonderful shots, and the devils can see in the dark! Where’s the nearest policeman?”

In spite of herself she was shivering.

“The patrol won’t be near here for another hour,” she faltered. “Did somebody throw a knife?”

“Not for another hour, eh?” he said, almost brightly. “Providence is on my side!”

He took a thing from his pocket—in the half light it looked to be a fat silver cylinder; she saw he was fitting it to the end of a long, black pistol.

“Mustn’t alarm the neighbours,” he said, and slipping from her side, again vanished into the darkness.

She waited, her heart in her mouth, and suddenly:

Plop!

The squawk that followed came from somewhere surprisingly near. She heard on the gravel drive a patter of feet that grew fainter and fainter. When it had ceased, Clifford rejoined her, and he was unfixing the silver box.

“Got him, but not seriously,” he said. “I’m glad I didn’t kill him. I should either have had to bury him in the wood and risk a scandal, or take him before a magistrate and make a newspaper sensation.”

“Did you shoot him?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, I shot him all right,” he said carelessly. “I think he was alone.”

Again he took her by the arm and led her along the drive, and they walked swiftly towards the Slaters’ Cottage. There was no sign of life: the shuttered windows were dead, and even the sound of the muffled explosion had not roused the interest or curiosity of Clifford Lynne’s guest.

He waited for almost a minute on the step of the cottage, listening.

“I think there was only one man,” he said with a little sigh of relief, “and probably a watcher, who reckoned he’d improve the shining hour by a little target practice. You’re not frightened?”

“Yes, I am,” she said; “I’m horribly frightened!”

“So am I,” he said. “I hate myself for taking this risk with you, but I had no idea there was any danger—yet.”

He put a key in the lock and opened the door. They were in a narrow passageway, from which, she saw as he switched on the light, two doors led left and right.

“Here we are.” He walked before her, turned the handle of the left-hand door and threw it open.

The room was newly and well furnished. Two large bulkhead lights fixed to the ceiling threw a diffused light through opalescent globes upon the apartment and its contents.

Sitting before the wood fire was a big man. She judged him to be sixty, and he was curiously attired. He wore, over a pair of neatly creased trousers, a huge red dressing-gown, behind which a stiff shirt shone whitely. He had on neither collar nor tie, and an immaculate morning coat hung over the back of a chair. As the door opened he looked up, took out the short clay pipe he had been smoking, and stared soberly at the visitor.

“Meet Miss Joan Bray,” said Lynne curtly.

The big stranger got heavily to his feet, and the girl noticed that on his many-chinned face was the cowed look of a schoolboy detected in an unlawful act.

“Now, Joan,” said Lynne grimly, “I want you to know a relative of yours. Let me introduce you to the late Joe Bray, who was dead in China and is alive in England!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Joan Could only stare, speechless, at her relative. Joe Bray! If she had indeed seen a ghost she could not have been more staggered.

He turned a sheepish face to Clifford.

“Have a heart, Cliff!” he pleaded feebly. “Have a heart!”

“I have a heart and I have a head too, and that’s where I’ve the advantage, you foolish old conspirator!”

Joe blinked from Clifford to the girl.

“It’s like this–-” he began loudly.

“Sit down.” Clifford pointed to the chair. “I’ve had your version six times; I don’t think I can stand it again. Joan,” he said, “this is the veritable Joseph Bray, of the Yun Nan Concession. Any mourning which you may have ordered for him you can cancel.”

“It’s like this–-” began Joe again.

“It isn’t a bit like that,” interrupted Lynne.

There was a twinkle in his eye which she had seen once before.

“This Joe Bray is romantic.” He pointed an accusing finger at the humbled man. “He has just brains enough to dream. And one of his crazy dreams was that I should marry into his family. And in order to drive me to this desperate step he invented a fake story about his being on the point of death. To support which—he has confessed this now—he procured the assistance of a doping, boozing doctor from Canton, who would certify a man insane for the price of a double whisky.”

“It’s like this–-” attempted Joe, louder still.

“The moment he got me out of the way,” continued the other remorselessly, “he sneaked down to Canton with his pal the doctor and followed me home on the next boat, leaving instructions that the death wire was to be sent as soon as he reached England.”

Here Joe asserted himself violently.

“You never would have married nobody if I hadn’t done it!” he roared. “You’ve got a hard heart, Cliff! Dying wishes don’t mean no more to you than a beer-stain on a policeman’s boot. I had to die! I thought I’d come along to the wedding and give you all a surprise–-“

“You’re indecent, Joe,” said Clifford gravely. “You’re the kind of man who can’t stay put.”

He turned to Joan, his lips twitching.

“I had my suspicions when I saw no reference to his death in the English newspapers,” he said. “Joe isn’t particularly important in relation to the rest of the world, but he has a pretty big name in China, and the least I expected was a couple of lines of regret from our special correspondent in Canton. And then when I saw in the North China Herald an announcement that Mr Joe Bray had booked a suite on the Kara Maru–-“

“In the name of Miller,” murmured Joe.

“I don’t know what name you used, but one of the reporters saw your baggage going aboard and recognized you on the street, so the camouflage wasn’t as blinding as you thought.”

Joe sighed. From time to time his eyes had been straying towards the girl, in a furtive, shamefaced way, but now he had the resolution to look at her straightly.

“I must say”—he waggled his huge head ecstatically—“I must say, Cliff, that you’ve got the pick of the bunch! She’s rather like my sister Eliza, who’s dead and gone now twenty-eight years. On the other hand, she’s got my brother George’s nose–-“

“You’re not going to sidetrack me with your personalities,” said Clifford. “You’re a wicked old man!”

“Artful,” murmured Joe, “not wicked. It’s like this–-“

He stopped, evidently expecting an interruption, and, when it did not come, was at some loss to proceed.

“I’ve had a lot of disappointments in my life, young lady,” he began oracularly. “Take Fing-Su! What I’ve done for that boy nobody knows except me and him. And when Cliff told me what sort of a feller he was, you could have knocked me down with a feather! I’ve been kind and generous to that pup, I admit it…”