He gazed open-mouthed from one side to the other. They all wore white bows, comically tied. Each man had white cotton gloves which rested on his knees. He had seen something like it before…that was the first impression Stephen Narth received. And then he recalled…a coloured minstrel troupe sitting solemnly in exactly that attitude…white gloves on knees. Only these men were yellow.
In four great blue vases joss-sticks were burning. The room was blue with their fumes.
And now he let his eyes stray along the centre aisle to the white altar, and, behind it, enthroned, Fing-Su himself. Over his evening dress—and no doubt his diamonds were real—he wore a robe of red silk. On his head was an immense gold crown which sparkled with precious stones. One white-gloved hand held a golden rod, the other a glittering orb that flashed in the light of the shaded candelabra. Suddenly his voice broke the silence:
“Who is this who comes to speak with the Joyful Hands?”
Narth became conscious of the golden hands suspended above Fing-Su’s head, but before he could take them in, Spedwell replied:
“O Son of Heaven, live for ever! This is one, thy meanest slave, who comes to worship at thy throne!”
Instantly at these words, as though they were watching some invisible choirmaster who led their chorus, the yellow men chanted something in chorus.
They stopped as abruptly as they had begun.
“Let him come near,” said Fing-Su.
Spedwell had disappeared; probably he was behind him. Narth did not dare turn his head to look. Two of these slovenly fellows in evening dress conducted him slowly along the hall. In a dim way he realized that the man on his right was wearing a pair of trousers that were three inches too short for him. But there was nothing comical in this. He was too oppressed with a sense of terror, a premonition of a horror yet unimagined, to find food for laughter in any of the incongruities which met his eyes on either side.
And then he saw the altar with its glittering edge, and the shrouded figure of a man lying upon it, covered by a white sheet. He looked at it numbly; saw a great red heart pinned to the sheet…He was trying hard to think sanely, his wide-staring eyes fixed upon the shape and the red heart…On the hem of the shroud was a sprawling Chinese character in scarlet.
“It’s symbolical…only a wax figure,” hissed a voice in his ear.
So Spedwell was there. He received an accession of courage from this knowledge.
“Say after me”—Fing-Su’s deep, solemn voice filled the room with sounds—“I will be faithful to the Joyful Hands…”
Like a man in a dream, Narth repeated the words.
“I will strike to the heart all its enemies.”
He repeated the words. Where was Leggat? He expected to find Leggat here. His eyes roved round the visible arc, but there was no sign of that stout, jovial man.
“By this sign”—Fing-Su was speaking—“do I give proof of my loyalty, my faith and my brotherhood…”
Somebody slipped a thing into his hand. It was a long, straight knife, razor-keen.
“Hold it above the figure,” said a voice in his ear, and mechanically Stephen Narth obeyed as he repeated, without realizing what the words meant, the oath that the man on the dais prescribed.
“So let all the enemies of the Emperor die!” said Fing-Su.
“Strike at the heart!” whispered Spedwell’s voice, and with all his strength Stephen Narth struck down.
Something yielded under the knife; he felt a quiver. And then the white sheet went suddenly red. With a scream he clawed at the cloth where the head was and drew it back…
“Oh, my God!” he shrieked.
He was looking into the dead face of Ferdinand Leggat!
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
He had killed Leggat! With his hands he, who would not have slain a rabbit, had struck this man to his death! The red on the cloth was widening; his hands were dabbled with the horrible fluid, and he turned with an insane yell to grapple with the devil who had whispered the words in his ear.
Spedwell, his face distorted with horror, put out his hand to save himself, but the bloody hands gripped his throat and flung him down. And then something struck Narth and he tumbled over, first to his knees and then upon the tessellated pavement, a demented, screaming madman…
*
The serried ranks of yellow men sat watching without movement, their shoddy diamonds glittering in their shirt-fronts, their white hands on their knees.
An hour later Major Spedwell came into the apartment which was reserved for Fing-Su on his infrequent visits to the factory, and the Chinaman looked up over his book and flicked the ash of his cigarette into a silver tray.
“Well?” he asked. “How is our squeamish friend?”
Spedwell shook his head. He himself looked ten years older. His linen still bore the impress of a red hand.
“Mad,” he said laconically. “I think he’s lost his reason.”
Fing-Su leaned back in his padded chair with a tut-tut of impatience.
“That I did not bargain for,” he said, in tones of gentle annoyance. “Who would have imagined that a full-grown man could have made such an exhibition of himself? Why, the fellow is a rank coward and outsider!”
Spedwell did not reply. Perhaps he was wondering whether there would come a day when, for motives of expediency, he might himself lie drugged upon the marble altar whilst some initiate thrust down the fatal knife.
“The idea was ingenious and should have had a better ending,” said Fing-Su. “Leggat was a coward and a traitor, and deserved his death. Possibly our friend Narth will take a different view when he recovers, and realizes that he has so committed himself.”
Spedwell was eyeing him steadily.
“You told me that the sacrifice was to be a Yun Nan man—the fellow who fell into the hands of Lynne. I hated the idea, but like a brute I agreed. God! When I saw Leggat’s face!”
He wiped his streaming brow; his breath came more quickly.
Fing-Su said nothing, but waited.
“How did you get Leggat?” asked Spedwell at last.
“He just came. We gave him a drink—he knew nothing,” said Fing-Su casually. “He had betrayed us—you know that. He’s dead and there’s an end of him. As to Narth, his life is in our hands.”.
Spedwell, who had dropped into a chair, looked up.
“He will have to be really mad to believe that,” he said. “As I told you before, Fing-Su, our lives are in his hands, not his in ours.”
Fing-Su carefully scooped out the end of his cigarette, inserted another in the ebony holder and lit it before he answered.
“Where have you put him?”
“In the stone hut. He won’t shout any more; I’ve given him a shot of morphia. There’s only one thing to do, Fing-Su, and that is to get this man out of the country as quickly as you can. The Umveli leaves tonight; put him on board–-“
“With the girl?”
Spedwell’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean, ‘with the girl’?” he asked. “You’re keeping her in London until Cliff Lynne gives you the share you want.”
The Chinaman puffed thoughtfully, his low forehead creased in thought.
“That was the original idea,” he admitted. “But so many things have happened in the past few hours…I am inclined to change my plans. We could get her to the Chinese coast and up one of the rivers without attracting any attention.” He sent a cloud of smoke to the ceiling and watched it dissolve. “She’s rather delicious,” he said.