Winchester told him.
"Another test, that's all," said Number Eight nervously. "You stood it well. You understand, I hope, that I could not forward your request unless it was really important. Now that I am convinced, it will go forward without delay."
"Thanks," said Winchester, with grim irony. "Thank you so very much."
CHAPTER XVI
Mysterious Tryst
The American was assigned sleeping quarters in a guard-room. He ate his supper in silence and was about to prepare for his bunk, when the sound of clicking heels and the jingle of accouterments as men sprang to attention caused him to pause and look toward the door.
A heavy-set man of forbidding appearance was striding toward him. He was dressed in the green of an AFPA official, but the profusion of gold emblems on his collar and sleeves told Winchester he was about to meet one of higher rank than he had heretofore seen.
To his astonishment, the officer halted a few paces before him and bowed deeply.
"Pardon, Excellency. A grievous error has been made. Will you be good enough to accompany me?"
Winchester returned the bow, but said nothing. He started to gather up his belongings, but a soldier already had them. There was nothing to do but follow the official out of the room, walking between the ranks of prison guards who stood stiffly at attention.
They traversed a number of corridors and went upwards some distance in a concealed elevator. The officer led the way into a sumptuous apartment and there bowed himself out.
"Prince Lohan has your message. In due time you will be given an audience."
Winchester examined his palatial suite with mingled awe and suspicion. His distrust of the police was profound, and he had been unable so far to fathom the motives of Lohan. He could only guess at what this latest move meant.
Obviously he had the protection of the prince, and that accounted for the deference of the police; but he was troubled over what might be the prince's motives. Gratitude might be one. But the sort of gratitude to be expected from princes is notorious, Winchester knew.
That alone would not explain. Nor Lohan's statement that his interest sprang from the fact his protege came from an ancient world. If his interest had been truly keen, he would have questioned Winchester long before.
Winchester bit his lip and frowned. He dismissed almost instantly the thought that perhaps he was valuable as a secret agent. That was ridiculous, for Lohan had thousands of them at his beck and call, any one of whom knew the game better and was more loyal. That left only Cynthia. She was in Lohan's custody and his interest in her was undisguised.
Was Winchester being kept alive and nursed along, so as to be used eventually as a weapon against the girl? Was the relatively good treatment being accorded him a sort of bribe to induce her to yield For he felt that she was true and loyal, and therefore might be bullied by threats against his safety.
Lohan was probably shrewd enough to realize that with Winchester dead, she would only turn defiant.
It troubled the American; but if it was so, at least it gave him time. And time was sorely needed. But until he knew more, he could only play his cards as they were dealt him.
The inspection of the rooms revealed a comfortable bedchamber, a luxurious sunken bath, a reception room and a small guardroom where a gold-braided sentry stood. Winchester said nothing to the man, but the fellow had the appearance more of a guard of honor than of a custodian. He went on with his exploration of the rooms.
A narrow bronze door let him into a darkened closet lit only by dim blue lights. He saw slits in the wall through which brighter light filtered. He put his eye to one, found he was looking down into the arena where the prisoners of the outside working parties were housed at nights. As before, they sat or slept on the sand in small groups.
Winchester found several observation slits fitted with telescopic sights, and several parabolic reflectors at the foci of which were microphones. He tried one of them. By pointing it correctly, he could pick up the slightest whisper on the floor. Using one in conjunction with a high-powered eye-piece, he swept the floor, seeking familiar faces.
At last he found Heim, squatting beside a fellow slave and talking softly with as little motion of the lips as possible, after the fashion of prisoners from time immemorial. The talk went on for minutes, mostly about the day's work and a particularly brutal guard they happened to have. Then it turned to a discussion of the latest addition to their ranks.
"Yeah," Heim was saying, "he looks okay, and that's too bad. The right guys never last long. I had a pal once — a fella named Winchester. Claimed to have slept a thousand years and woke up here. He was a little screwy, I guess, but I liked him. They took him off on a construction job and that was the end of him. Something happened that didn't suit Slant-eyes, so the whole gang got the works. That's the way it goes — "
Winchester listened longer, but his name was not mentioned again. After a bit, he clicked off the observation machines and quietly went to bed, taking another problem with him.
Why had Lohan assigned him this room? As a demonstration of how the all-seeing eye works? Or as a mark of special confidence? There was no answer.
Hours later Winchester fell asleep. He dreamed of being in a tangled net, woven with devilish cleverness out of intertwined question marks.
Nothing made any sense now.
The morning brought another interview with Number Eight. But it was a different Number Eight. He was of the same general type, but slightly older.
"You will deal with me hereafter," he said in a dry, brittle voice. "My predecessor is unfortunately — uh — indisposed. He will not be back."
He cleared his throat. He did not look too happy over stepping into the vacated job.
"Pending your coming audience, there is an important job to be done. As soon as you have completed that, His Highness will see you. Until then you will make no report. He will receive the report in person. Here is the story."
The section chief drew a portfolio of reports toward him.
"Lunar Mines is a private concession operated by the Li-Kiang family — distant cousins of the Lohans. They have their own intelligence service, but we find it expedient to exercise some supervision ourselves. Five of our operatives are already there in minor capacities. They were sent ahead to lay the groundwork. They have already worked their way into positions of trust, and are ready to introduce you as an old friend and leader.
"You will at once take charge and unveil the whole conspiracy, of whatever nature it is and then arrange for yourself a natural 'disappearance'. Under no circumstances are you to take direct action. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Winchester took the portfolio. He knew he was in for many hours of intensive study and nearly as many more in the hands of the make-up experts. Since the new Number Eight had no more to say, he withdrew to his elegant quarters.
He found, as in the two previous
