The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
chair came alongside mine.
“It is early Sung architecture,” he declared. “A beautiful specimen, Breck!”
My eyes fled upward. Incongruous thing amid this ancient beauty and quiet repose, a bare pole stuck out against the blood-red sky—a bare black pole that might have been a flagstaff but was not.
If I had known of this, I would have brought a few soldiers along at the risk of a row. For we did not relish any unlicensed wireless stations.
“Ah!” exclaimed Groot’s voice. “Here’s Mary down to meet us!”
Our chairs halted before the massive tiled gateway in the wall, and I forgot about the wireless and everything else, for I found myself shaking hands with Mary Fisher.
Behind her, to meet us, came a man who could be no other than Baron Rosoff.
CHAPTER III
Mary Speaks Up
The sun was gone suddenly behind the mountains. In the gray twilight, while light mists swirled about the tree-shaded river, we walked up through the gardens to the buildings that crowned the hillock.
I must have seemed something of a fool; to tell the truth, the sight of Mary Fisher had struck me dumb. To think that she could be the niece of Alan Groot! It was not her beauty; it was what counts a million times more than beauty—personality. I had an impression of vivid brown eyes against a white skin, a face which, in repose, seemed to have no character. But a word, a smile, and you were gripped!
There is no accounting for the subtle but tremendous power which the strong personality of a woman can exert over men. It is stronger in some than others; nor is it any mere sex-influence, as newfangled cults would have us think. The old Chinese knew better. The ancient sages, away back in the thousands of years, called it yin—the female principle of the universe. I think they had the right idea.
Rosoff, to my astonishment, was a fearfully nice chap; an accomplished, aristocratic fellow, and remarkably handsome. He was clean-shaven, and had a face of keen decision. Character was strong in him, too—the male principle, which the sages called yang. He was the type of man who could be chucked naked into a wilderness and come out owning the place. In the face of his personal magnetism, I actually had to force myself to remember John Li and all the dread truth about this man.
Darkness was falling when we reached the temple, and priests were lighting lanterns, I found that the four of us were to occupy a small building—a separate shrine, long disused, which had been turned over to Groot, who had his own ménage. Mary Fisher informed us that dinner was all ready, and that the chief priest—it was a Taoist crowd and not a lamasery—was dining with us. Groot took me to his own room to wash up and change clothes.
“My boy,” he said impressively, when we were alone, “I’m afraid that you were very sadly mistaken in your suspicions. Baron Rosoff is a gentleman of much culture. He occupies a distinct position as a savant—”
“That’s equally true of you, Alan,” I told him. “What’s more, there’s a wireless outfit on the roof of this place in daily communication with Peking—and Shantung. At dinner, you tell ’em about that fellow who was killed by bandits; but don’t, under any circumstances, mention that I sent his body into the city! Understand?”
He said no more. He was nervous, suspicious, and bewildered. Nor did I blame him greatly, for Rosoff was the last man on earth to be suspected of his present business. That, no doubt, was why he was engaged in it.
Groot provided me with a clean uniform-collar, and we went in to dinner. The conditions were fairly primitive, you understand, but there were good servants, good food, and a good deal of comfort in little ways. The dining table, for instance, was laid with a linen cloth, and we used fine Chingtecher porcelain from the temple stock.
The head priest, Wan Shih by name, was chatting with Rosoff and Mary Fisher in broken English, for the girl knew no Mandarin. He shook hands with me in occidental fashion, and I saw that he was dangerous. A tall, thin man, he had the sunken, brilliant eyes of the fanatic; he was an ascetic, and his dinner consisted of bread and water. Just the type to hold this place under an iron rule, and to be honestly deceived by some wild dream of the idealistic Peking government. I thought at the moment that some of his priests would be Koreans or Japs, and as events proved I was right.
We were no more than sitting down to table when Alan Groot shot out his excited account of meeting the bandit victim. Rosoff turned to me with a smile, but his eyes held no mirth.
“What’s this, Captain Breck?” he asked genially. “I thought your people were putting down all banditry?”
“Can’t do everything, baron,” I rejoined. “Besides, it was only conjecture that the coolie had met bandits. He was able to say nothing. Died a moment after we met him.”
“Oh!” said Rosoff, looking inwardly pleased. “I suppose he would not have been very intelligible, in any case?”
I shook my head. “Not to me, although Groot might have understood him. I know a bit of Mandarin and some Cantonese; but these inland dialects are beyond me.”
At this, Rosoff gave Wan Shih a glance, and I knew that I had won the first round. The more harmless they thought me, the better for me.
“By the way,” and Rosoff turned to Groot, “I have discovered something you will be glad to learn. There is an old Tibetan transcription of the Chinese mu-su, written in the form bug-sug. This, I fancy, would trace back directly to your lost Iranian term—”
“Excellent, excellent!” cried Groot, his eyes kindling. He was off at once on the word-hunt, and the two of them plunged into a discussion that sparkled with languages I had never heard of. They were two thousand years away from here, in no time at all!
Meantime, I was talking with Mary Fisher and Wan Shih. The priest spoke in his slow and labored English, and evinced great interest in the work that we of Shanghai were doing in the province. I let him pump me all he wished, and by degrees—Mary innocently helping it along by her frank curiosity—it came to personal matters.
I made no secret of my own history, for I was convinced Wan Shih knew it already, at least in part. Mary looked a bit disappointed at hearing that I was a mercenary, hired out to help put the new air service on its feet; but I plunged boldly into an arraignment of the Peking crowd, and a glowing eulogy of my own friends. I could see that Rosoff was listening with one ear, and before I got through, both he and Wan Shih were satisfied that I entertained no suspicions whatever of the temple and had come as a visitor with my friend Groot.
“And how do you occupy your time here, Miss Fisher?” I asked, switching the subject.
“How do you think?” she parried brightly.
“Well,” and I grinned, “when Alan told me about you, I set you down as an earnest lady who was trying to convert all the Taoist priests in these parts, and providing diapers for all the yellow babies! I did know a good soul in Kwangtung who had that ambition—”
There was a general laugh, and Wan Shih regarded me with a chuckle.
“This young lady,” he said, “she highly int’lested in great teachings of divine maste’! She study teachings.”
“Yes,” and Mary laughed, “Wan Shih says I would make a fine Taoist, Captain Breck! Do you think I’m in any danger—of being converted?”
Just a pause—an almost imperceptible pause. Something flashed to my brain as I met her eyes. Some indefinite feeling; intuition, perhaps. Most people lay these things to the imagination, and fail to heed them. But in my business, one cannot afford to neglect the imagination.
“Well,” I rejoined lightly, “if I were in your place, I’d be mighty careful! Wan Shih is a gentleman of real religion—he’s no hedge-priest. And when you find Taoism in its pure state, it’s a faith that has considerable power.”
Mary Fisher looked thoughtfully at me, but Wan Shih was delighted by my compliment, which