hundred miles up the river, then into the hills. A launch is waiting for us. Can you make it?”
“Righto!” The Irishman made no inquiries as to the nature of my “trouble,” which I thought very white of him. “I’ll meet you downstairs, what? In forty minutes.”
He departed. I turned to Yu.
“What about dinner? What about—everything?”
“Leave everything to me, master,” said this marvel of a servant. “Two chairs will come for you, in my charge. Dinner will be served aboard the launch. You have a pistol?”
“No,” I said.
“Here is one.” He handed me an automatic, with a heavy little packet in which were extra clips, loaded. “Say nothing to the hotel people about departing; that will be attended to later. I will bring a porter to take charge of your bags.”
He was at the door, when I checked him.
“See here, Yu! If this chap Schneider has gone ahead of us, why haven’t you taken some measures to detain him?”
“I have,” he answered, and was gone.
It seemed to me that Kohler had some admirable servants.
The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Yu was more than an ordinary coolie. His intelligence and education afforded evidence of it. When I encountered O’Grady downstairs, the Irishman surveyed me with a humorous twinkle in his eye.
“That number one boy of yours is an efficient beggar, eh?”
I nodded. “He’s a loan from a friend. By the way, I should tell you that I’m not a fugitive from justice, as you might think me; my enemies are purely commercial ones.”
He waved his hand and laughed.
“Devil take it, have I asked ye any questions? I like the cut of your jib, Breck, and that’s enough for me. I’m out for a holiday, and damn regulations! I fancy you have business of your own upriver, eh? Good! I’m glad to go along, and the more heads to hit, the better! And, me lad, if our friend Schneider is one o’ them makin’ trouble for you, just you give me first crack at him, mind! I’ve an idea that he’s a sly puss.”
His delight in the situation relieved me, although I was slightly puzzled by his indubitable fervency in speaking of Schneider as he did. I had feared that my talk of enemies might seem theatrical and absurd; but I had forgotten that I was dealing with an Irishman, who would delight in theatricals and to whom nothing could be absurd.
Yu appeared with two chairs, and we got off without incident. Darkness was falling, and our bearers took us directly to the wharf from which we had come that noon. Seen thus, Fuchow was a magnificent sight—the two bridges dotted with lanterns, the huge out-strung city across the river glimmering and quivering with lights to the hills far beyond, and the Nangtai district all ablaze with electric lights up the hillsides.
We found the wharves, at this hour, almost deserted. A few porters loafed about, but our launch was the only craft at the landing stage. The tide was in and she floated high, a long, narrow, steam-launch of light draft, but large and comfortable.
As we got out of the chairs, Yu stepped forward to confer with one of his men at the head of the stairs. At this instant I caught a low cry from O’Grady.
“Ware, Breck; ’ware the knife!”
I turned, to find a man plunging at me, and the wharf lights glimmered on steel. I leaped aside and tripped him; O’Grady hurled himself forward, grappled with the man, and then the two figures suddenly parted. The fellow went flying through the air, and went into the water with a huge splash.
“Over the hip!” panted O’Grady exultantly. “Well thrown, what? Want to land the chap, Breck?”
“Let him go,” came the soft voice of Yu. “Let him go. There will be a commotion, and we cannot waste time.”
Indeed, yells and shouts were already going up from the loafers. I lost no time, but got aboard the launch, with O’Grady laughing behind me. Our bags were passed down, the engines purred into life, and a moment afterward we were heading upstream under the bridge.
Who the assassin was, I did not know or care. The attempt proved, however, that somebody had been keeping an eye on our friend Yu.
III
Our launch had the air of a tiny yacht rather than a river boat, with its after awning, and gleaming brasses, and speedy power. There was a sleeping cabin with two bunks; the crew consisted of two men and a steward, who took their orders from Yu. As soon as we were away from the city, dinner was served to me and O’Grady on the after deck. We were going upriver at slow speed. The dinner was remarkable in its variety and excellence.
“Faith, your friends do you well, old chap!” affirmed the Irishman. “This craft is a wonder; a lippin’ dinner, too! I had no idea China was like this. Haven’t tasted such Sauterne in ages.”
His comments were excusable, and we did full justice to the dinner.
Afterward, with cigars alight, we stretched out in the long Singapore chairs and watched the shores drift past. There was a glorious full moon, and we were alone on the river, for night travel is not popular; indeed, I wondered that our crew would consent to keep going, since the water-devils are greatly to be feared, and we had indulged in no firecrackers or gong-beatings. Our helmsman appeared to know the waters intimately.
I had long since learned, however, that James Sze Kohler and the men who served him were in a class by themselves.
Yu had vanished forward. O’Grady and I had the after-deck to ourselves, and we chatted freely. I gathered from what O’Grady said that he had been something of a rover; now and again there was a disquieting hint in his words or voice—a hint of ruthless efficiency, of reckless immorality. That was in keeping, of course; he was the sort of man who laughs at odds, who indulges in any perilous enterprise with a whole-hearted impulse, and who dies with a jest on his lips. One could not help liking O’Grady. He was the type that young men admire and imitate—vainly.
Upon thinking it over later, I realized that he had said nothing definite about himself.
We turned in, at length, and as we undressed I observed two things. O’Grady wore a pistol slung in a neat armpit holster; and, tightly about his neck, a little pouch. To this latter I paid slight heed at the moment, thinking naturally that he was wearing a scapulary.
I was asleep in no time, taking the upper bunk. When I awakened, it was one o’clock; on the wall hung my illuminated watch pointing the hour. I wondered what had wakened me, then was aware of a subdued movement in the cabin. As I turned, the berth-springs squeaked abominably. The cabin door slammed; when I switched on the light, I was alone, save for the snoring figure of O’Grady.
Slipping into trousers and shoes, I doused the light and opened the door. As I did so, a vibrant, excited voice sang out on deck, followed almost instantly by a shot from some little distance, to judge by the sound. I caught my coat from the hook near the door, dragged out my pistol, and started for the deck. I heard O’Grady hit the floor with both feet as I had departed, but paused not for him.
The vibration of the boat, which suddenly increased,
