“No; the bullet hit him just above the knee, that is the only injury,” he said as he wrapped a towel about the wound. “The fall from the roof knocked him out. O man!” he called in the dialect as the coolie opened his eyes and began to glare from one to the other.
“I am killed!” gasped the man, his face puckering fearfully as he recognized Lynne.
“Who brought you here?”
“None! I came of my own wish,” said the native, and Clifford grinned unpleasantly.
“Soon,” he said, “I will take you into the wood and I will light a little fire on your face and you will talk, my friend. But for a while you will stay here with Shi-su-ling.”
He gave the native name of the helpless Joe Bray, and it was not a particularly flattering one.
Going back to the girl, he expected to find her in a state of agitation and was agreeably disappointed. But she knew that something was wrong and guessed that that something was a natural sequel to the knife-throwing incident earlier in the evening.
“Yes,” nodded Cliff, “it was a Chinaman who wanted to get even with me. I think I’d better cut out the coffee and take you home. They have gone now,” he added incautiously.
“They? How many were there?” she asked.
There was nothing to be gained by deceiving her. Rather, he thought, she had better know the full extent of the peril.
“Probably more than a dozen were in the attack, and what they expected to get I don’t know.”
“You,” she said significantly, and he nodded.
“I rather fancy I was the booty,” he said. “The important fact is that they are gone and there is nothing more to fear.”
He was examining her face, and she had the sensation that he was making a final appraisement of her character.
“But first I will say something that is certain to alarm you,” he said. “There is nothing to be gained by beating about the bush. Fing-Su will stop at nothing, as I know. If he gets the idea into his thick head that I am fond of you—as I am—he may shift his attentions to you. Does that frighten you?”
She shook her head.
“Probably because I’m deficient in imagination,” she said, “but I’m not frightened.”
He opened a steel cupboard in one corner of the sitting-room and took out a round black object, the size of a large plum.
“I want you to keep to your house and not go out after dark,” he said. “Also, I wish you to put this ball somewhere in your bedroom where you can reach it easily. If there is trouble of any kind, throw it out of the window—it isn’t very heavy.”
She smiled.
“Is it a bomb?”
“In the ordinary sense, no. It would do you a bit of damage if it burst close to you, and I’m not suggesting you should keep it under your pillow. In the daytime lock it away in a drawer; at night keep it where it can be reached. You’re scared,” he accused.
“No, I’m not,” she protested indignantly. “But you’ll admit you are doing your best to frighten me!”
He patted her on the shoulder.
“Will anything happen tonight?” she asked, as she took the object in her hand and put it very carefully into her bag.
He hesitated.
“I don’t think so. Fing-Su is neither a quick nor a thorough worker.”
She looked round for Joe Bray as he escorted her to the door.
“I wanted to say goodnight–-“
“Joe is busy,” he said. “You’ll see enough of the old devil—too much. Don’t forget this, though: Joe doesn’t know the meaning of fear. He’s a moral coward and he’s foolish, but I’ve seen him tackle five hundred howling fanatics with a broken rifle and a clasp-knife.”
They walked swiftly down the drive, Clifford sweeping the gravel with his hand-lamp, and presently saw the heavy tracks of the motor-lorry that led to the road and turned in the direction of London. When they were within sight of Sunni Lodge he stopped.
“Just show me the room where you sleep. Is it visible from here?”
She pointed.
“On the top floor, eh?” he said, relieved. “What is the next room—the one with the white curtains?”
“That’s the kitchen-maid’s room,” she explained. “At least, it is the room where the kitchen-maid sleeps when we have one. At present we’re two servants short at the Lodge.”
He made a swift survey of the house and was less satisfied. It was easy, he saw, to reach even the top floor, for Sunni Lodge was one of those queer dwellings which artistic architects love to design. There was a small stone balcony here, a turret there, and crowning danger of all, a long iron rain-pipe that ran from roof to ground.
He waited until the door was closed and went hurriedly back to the cottage. Joe was sitting in the kitchen smoking his pipe and exchanging bitter words in Chinese with the wounded man.
“You won’t get this bird to talk,” said Joe disgustedly, “but I know him, his name’s Ku-t’chan. He used to be a worker in the Fu-Weng store. I recognized him at once. It’s a curious thing about me, Cliff,” he said complacently, “that I never forget a face. I’ve got a memory like one of them cash registers you see in stores. The minute I see this feller, I said ‘I know you, my lad; you’re Ku-t’chan,’ and he didn’t deny it. It’s no good questioning him, Cliff, he’s as mum as a dead fish.”
“You can go back to your book, Joe,” said Clifford curtly and shut the kitchen door upon his partner, taking his place in the chair.
“Now, Ku-t’chan, or whatever your name is, speak and speak quickly, because in four hours there will be light,” he said. “And it is not good that anyone should see me burying a Chinaman in the wood. And buried you will be.”
“Master,” said the frightened man, “why should you kill me?”
“Because,” said Clifford carefully, “if I let you live and you tell the magistrate that I laid fire on you, it would put me to shame.”
In a quarter of an hour Ku-t’chan told all he knew, which was not a great deal, but was more than enough for Clifford Lynne’s peace of mind.
He made the man comfortable for the night, well assured that after his betrayal he would not attempt to escape, and went in to Joe. The fat man looked up as he entered.
“Going out?” he asked, aggrieved. “What’s the idea, Cliff? I got a lot to talk about.”
“Keep your eye on that man. It is unlikely that he’ll give you any trouble,” said Clifford rapidly. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, but probably before daylight. You know how to turn that couch into a bed if you want to sleep?”
“The point is–-” began the justly incensed Joe.
Before he could deliver his point, Clifford Lynne was gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Stephen Narth and the girls would not be back before three. The first inclination Joan had was to await their return before going to bed, but she realized that, whatever romance the night held, whatever bizarre adventures might come to her between Sunni Lodge and the Slaters’ Cottage, and however tremendous the revelations of the night had been, she was responsible for the smooth running of Stephen Narth’s household, and although she did not expect to sleep, she went upstairs to bed.
There were three servants sleeping at the back of the house. The butler had part of the suite over the garage which was intended for the chauffeur, and was practically cut off from the house. Although he was middle-aged and lethargic, she was glad to know that he was on hand, for in spite of her protestations she was a little fearful.
She left the light in the hall, and for once did not extinguish the lamp on either of the landings. Her window curtains were drawn, her bed made ready, and she was suddenly and desperately tired; yet she sat for half an hour on the bed without undressing, until she rose, impatient with herself, and began slowly to disrobe. She turned out the light and for half an hour lay vainly endeavouring to subdue her thoughts to a level which made sleep possible. The house was full of strange noises. It seemed to her imagination that she could hear an excited whispering of voices on the landing above. Once a floorboard creaked and she sat up in a fright.