CHAPTER I

THE MARK OF DEATH

THE MOUNTAIN LIMITED was clicking slowly over the rails that trail through the highest and wildest land in America — the western slope of the Rockies. Speed was cut down as the big special labored toward the highest point on its line — nearly seven thousand feet above sea level.

Midnight had struck.

Outside, the gloomy mountains hung over the track; seemed about to close in on it, and wipe out the train and all its passengers.

Within the club car of the train, only a handful of men remained in the comfortable chairs.

All of these were dozing away, with the exception of one who sat at the end of the car, puffing furiously at a pipe that was no longer alight. His lips twitched, his eyes blinked furiously, and every time one of his dozing companions stirred, he whirled around quickly, as though the sound had some hideous portent.

Pulling a watch from his pocket, he gave it a hurried glance, then allowed his eyes to wander around the car. Satisfied that no one was observing him, he crossed quickly to the writing desk.

His hand shook, partly from nervousness and partly from the swaying of the train. Making no effort to control the blotching of the pen, he pushed it rapidly across the paper. There was something furtive in his haste.

Finally he signed his name — Stephen Laird — and blotted the letter. Just then one of the other men in the car mumbled something drowsily, and Laird thrust the letter into his pocket. He leaned back and assumed an air of nonchalance that was obviously false.

For a minute he sat there, tensely posed in an attitude of ease. Then, he took the sheet of letter paper from his pocket, and laid it on the desk.

Rapidly Laird addressed an envelope, blotted it, put the letter in, and stamped it. The glue from the stamp smeared over his lower lip as he licked it with sharp, uncertain movements.

Stephen Laird jumped up from the desk, and started to walk forward in the car. Suddenly he stopped, went back to the writing desk, and, picking up the blotter that he had used, thrust it into his pocket.

It was a new sheet of white blotting paper, and had retained an almost perfect reproduction of what Laird had written. Drops of sweat appeared upon his forehead, as though in horror at a near escape.

The sweat made a mark on the man’s forehead stand out in relief. It was a red mark — almost as red as blood. There was something awe-striking about it.

LAIRD started toward the front end of the car again. As he neared the corridor, the porter appeared, blinking drowsily. Laird handed the Negro a dollar bill.

“How soon can you mail a letter for me?” he asked in a low, nervous, voice.

“Next stop is Truckee, suh,” answered the porter.

“How soon?” was the sharp retort.

“Bout fo’ty minutes, suh. Train goes downhill pretty soon, now.”

Laird hesitated. His hand moved toward the pocket where he had put the letter.

“Come and see me in twenty minutes, then. I’ll have a letter for you.”

“Yes, suh.”

“Or, no, wait a minute.” Laird took the letter from his pocket, and held it tentatively for a minute. He studied the porter through narrowed eyelids.

The porter gazed back timidly. He noticed that the passenger’s eyes were close together. They seemed like two threatening knife points to the superstitious Pullman hand.

Laird seemed satisfied with his scrutiny. He relaxed slightly, and handed the porter the letter. The latter gazed at it slyly, and said:

“I’ll sho’ mail this, Misteh Laird. I won’t forget now!”

Laird jumped.

“How did you know my name?” He shot the question at the terrified porter viciously.

“Fum the envelope, suh. Jus’ fum the corner of the envelope.”

Again Laird relaxed. The porter tried to pull himself together, but just as he was on the point of regaining his composure, he noticed the little red mark on Laird’s forehead.

It seemed to strike terror to the Negro’s soul, though he could not explain why. There was something sinister about the bloodlike mark.

Laird laughed, half in relief at having gotten the letter off his hands, half in amusement at the porter’s obvious terror. Then he turned and walked unconcernedly back toward the rear of the train.

After the passenger had gone, the porter stood still a moment, trying to connect the red mark with something else in his experience. Finally he shook his head, and walked to the letter rack in the rear of the car.

Into the open rack he dropped the letter. There were already a half dozen envelopes there, ready to be mailed at Truckee.

The porter disappeared into the linen closet. Immediately one of the dozing men leaped to his feet. He sprang to the letter rack, threw a quick glance around the car, and withdrew the letter the porter had just placed there. Then he hurried from the car.

THE train was slowing down still further as it reached the pass through the mountains. As the man who had just stolen the letter hastened in the same direction Stephen Laird had taken, he noticed that there was hardly any sideward motion at all.

The letter thief quickly reached the observation car. It was deserted. The man walked to the glass door at the rear of the car, hesitated a few moments, and then stepped out onto the platform.

Although it was now past one o’clock, there was a man sitting in the darkness on the left side of the little platform. He glanced up sharply as the thief appeared; but the newcomer paid no attention to him. Instead, he dusted off the unoccupied chair, and sat down on the right side of the gallery.

After a few minutes of silence, the man on the left lighted a cigarette. The glare of the match in his cupped hands revealed the sallow, nervous features of Stephen Laird. The crimson mark stood out over the blinking, furtive eyes.

The match went out. Laird’s head was facing forward, looking straight back along the dropping tracks that stretched to the coast.

The train rattled as it bumped over a switch point and onto the double-tracked roadbed that indicated a bypass. A signal post appeared.

It carried a single green light. Laird’s eyes focused on that glare. His body shook with an irresistible shudder. That single disk of brilliant green had awakened some horrible memory in his mind!

He mumbled: “Green! Green! Like those other lights — like those awful eyes!”

The words were not loud enough for the man who had stolen the speaker’s letter to distinguish. His side of the platform was wrapped in a blanket of clickings and grumblings as a long line of darkened sleepers passed by, bound west.

Brakes ground as the eastbound limited slowed. A crying gasp sounded on the observation platform. It rose to a crescendo that was completely obscured by the noise of the brakes and the passing train. Finally it sank to a gasping moan.

The observation platform was dark. The brakeman who climbed over the rear railing noticed nothing as he swung his lantern over the right side of the platform for an increase in speed.

The limited picked up speed on the easy down grade to Truckee. The brakeman, his work done, turned to go into the car. His red lantern swung within a foot of the chair that Laird had been occupying. The light showed the huddled, motionless form of a man. His head was forward on his chest. His breath was coming in short, audible gasps.

The brakeman set down the lantern and shook the huddled body. There was no response. Quickly the train hand swung the helpless man into the closed part of the car, and dropped him on a long couch.

The light in the car showed a horrible sight. Stephen Laird’s chest was covered with blood. His coat and vest were ripped to shreds. He had been brutally stabbed!

The brakeman dropped to his knees to support the gory victim, and shouted for the porter. The latter brought the conductor, who tried to force water between Laird’s lips.

Both the brakeman and the conductor focused their eyes on the crimson sign that stood out like a beacon against the deathly pallor of Laird’s forehead.

The porter ran to try and find a doctor. It was immediately apparent that without medical assistance, Laird would not live the few minutes it would take the train to get to Truckee and a hospital.

Laird’s lips were moving. The conductor bent over, trying to catch something that would give a clew to the attack.

“Eyes,” said the dying man. “Green eyes!”

The conductor reached for a slip of paper. He urged Laird to speak further.

“In the box,” was all he could distinguish.

“Yes,” said the conductor. “In the box. What box?”

“See — ” The words were cut off by a gurgle of blood issuing from Laird’s pale lips.

The dying man said something indistinguishable. The conductor crouched closer.

“T — A - G — ” A pause, and then: “A — ” The pale lips and dimming brain were trying to say something of such importance that it had to be spelled. The conductor wrote down the letters.

They were the last that Stephen Laird ever said. His mouth opened, and more blood gushed forth. His fingers twitched twice, and then stiffened.

A physician, hastily aroused by the observation-car porter, hurried in, dressed in trousers over pajamas. He bent over Laird a moment, and then straightened.

“He’s dead,” he said. “Murdered!”

THE conductor went through Laird’s pocket, looking for a railroad check. He found it, in an envelope marked Stephen Laird. He wrote the name on a sheet of paper, and then copied his notes. He read them to the doctor:

” ‘See in the box. Tag A.’ He tried to spell it. ‘T — A - G’ — then, he managed to gasp out the letter ‘A.’ That was all he was able to say.”

The brakeman went out on the platform where he had found Laird’s body. He called to the conductor, pointed to the blood-stained corner of the platform, and held up a piece of white paper.

“Right here, where I found — found him, there was this.”

The conductor took the fragment. It was part of the blotter that Laird had thrust into his pocket in the club car. This scrap bore only two letters: R and D, in reverse, the last letters of the murdered man’s signature.

The conductor did not realize this. He searched for the rest of the blotter, in vain.

“Go up ahead,” he said to the brakeman, “and bring back the porter from the club car. Maybe he’ll know something. This looks like one of the line’s blotters.”

The porter, brought in by the brakeman, eyed the body cautiously.

“Yes, suh,” he said. “That’s the one, suh. He give me a letter, suh, jus’ a li’l while ago. I got it heah, Misteh Conductuh, right heah in the mail foh Truckee.”

While he spoke, he had been searching through the mail for Truckee. There was no envelope with Stephen Laird’s name on the corner.

Meanwhile the observation-car porter and the brakeman had been having trouble keeping curious passengers out of the car. The brakeman called to the conductor.

“Here’s a gentleman who says he’s from the newspapers, conductor. Shall I let him in?”

The conductor nodded his assent. A man bustled forward, dressed, like the doctor, in pajamas and trousers. He showed the conductor his credentials. He was a correspondent from one of the newspaper syndicates, returning from a Western story.

The conductor told this man what he knew about the murder. The latter’s eyes glistened. This was a fine story. “Murder on the Mountain Limited.” He could already see the headlines.

He made a special note of the mysterious last words of Stephen Laird.

“Laird said something, too, about eyes,” remarked the conductor thoughtfully. “Green eyes, as I remember it. But that was when I first got there. This is all I have written down: ‘In the box,’ and then ‘see,’ and then this about ‘Tag A,’ that he tried to spell.”

Up ahead, the whistle blasted through the night. The train was coming into Truckee, where the authorities would take over the body and the mystery.

The little group of men around the dead man dropped into silence. The correspondent was sitting down scribbling off a telegram to file at the station.

But he said nothing about the red mark on Stephen Laird’s forehead, because no one had thought to mention it.

That mark was scarcely noticeable now. It was nothing more than a faint blur.

Living, the red mark on Laird’s forehead had impressed three men: the porter, the conductor, and the brakeman.

Now that Laird was dead, the mark was dying, too, as though it were connected with his soul, rather than with his body. In the excitement, the mark was forgotten.

The porter had been sent back to his car. All that the newspapers and the authorities were told was that a man had been found stabbed on the observation platform; a fragment of blotter had been found beside him; he had uttered certain vague words and letters before his death; and a letter which he had written had been stolen.

But of all the details marking the murder of Stephen Laird, that vanished crimson mark was most significant. For it was that sign that brought him to his doom!

That spot that shone like blood was the mark of death! Now, death had struck; and its mark — no longer needed — was gone!

CHAPTER II

THE FACE FROM THE DARK

SEVERAL days had passed since the strange death of Stephen Laird, passenger on the Mountain Limited. The case had created a wide sensation at first. Now, with no solution toward the mystery, it had dropped into prompt oblivion.

It was evening, in San Francisco. A tall, well-dressed man entered the lobby of the Aldebaran Hotel, carrying a light suitcase. He stepped up to the desk to register. The clerk noted the name which the writer fashioned in a clear, sweeping hand.

The new guest’s name was Henry Arnaud.

“What kind of a room would you like, Mr. Arnaud?” questioned the clerk.

“I should prefer one on the top floor,” was the reply.

The clerk looked over the list of vacant rooms. The Aldebaran was a second-rate hostelry, and was never filled with guests. But due to its location on one of the noisy streets that angle northward from Market, the rooms on the upper floors were always occupied. At present, there was just one vacancy on the eighth floor, the highest story in the house. The clerk passed it by.

“I can give you something on the seventh—”

“No,” said Arnaud, shaking his head emphatically. “I want to be as high up as possible. If I can’t get a room on the top floor, I shall go somewhere else.”

“Wait a moment!” The clerk pretended to make a sudden discovery. “Here you are, sir — Room 806. A very nice room, Mr. Arnaud.”

The guest seemed highly pleased, and turned his bag over to the waiting bell boy. The clerk called out the number of the room, and Henry Arnaud started to the elevator. The clerk shrugged his shoulders.

There was a very definite reason why Room 806 was vacant. Until a few nights ago, it had been occupied by Stephen Laird. That guest had left the Aldebaran one evening to take the Mountain Limited for Chicago.

The police at Truckee had discovered an envelope in Laird’s pocket, marked with the number of the room and the name of the hotel at which he had stopped in San Francisco.

So, on the following morning, the police of the coast city had called at the Aldebaran to search the room for clews that might lead to a solution of the murder of Stephen Laird. The room had been bare of evidence, and the clerk had been instructed to keep it vacant for a few days.

There was no ban now; but 806 was not to be offered to a guest without good excuse for so doing. The excuse had worked excellently tonight. Henry Arnaud had insisted upon an eighth-story room; he had received the only one available.

The clerk’s eyes scanned the lobby. He wanted to be sure that the issuing of Room 806 had caused no comments. Many of the guests at the Aldebaran were permanents who might talk about the fact that Laird had lived there almost until the time of his murder.

One man who had been reading a newspaper was strolling from the lobby; no others showed any sign of activity.

MEANWHILE, Henry Arnaud had reached Room 806. The room occupied a corner of the hotel. One window opened on the front street; the other covered a vacant lot.

The room was small. It had no bath. A large wardrobe stood in the corner, in lieu of a closet. The only modern touch to this room was a reading lamp on a small table beside the single bed.

Yet Arnaud did not appear dissatisfied with his quarters. He tipped the bell boy and carefully locked the door after the attendant had left the room. He seated himself in a chair beside the bed. He took an old newspaper from the pocket of his light overcoat.

As Arnaud spread the paper, his eyes rested upon a paragraph relating to the death of Stephen Laird. It was an exact account of the man’s demise, and gave the conductor’s version of everything he had heard the dying man say.

What was the meaning of the statement, “Tag A,” the last message that Laird had tried to give? That was a mystery. The newspaper paragraph also stated that the envelope scrawled with 806, Aldebaran Hotel, had been found in the dead man’s pocket.

Henry Arnaud smiled as he scanned that notice. It explained his presence here tonight. He had chosen this room by design, not by accident.

The light that shone upon Henry Arnaud’s face revealed a countenance that was both distinctive and unusual. Henry Arnaud was possessed of firmly molded features that appeared almost as if they had been chiseled by a human hand. They gave a quiet, motionless expression to his countenance.

One could not have told the age of this man. Forty years might have been a fair estimate, but its accuracy could not have been more than speculative.

He was a being with a human mask, whose face became more inscrutable as it was examined closer. In the proximity of the light, it was even more impressive than in the poorly illuminated lobby. Arnaud’s eyes were an amazing factor. They sparkled with a glow that boded mystery.

Slowly, Henry Arnaud raised his hand and extinguished the light beside the bed. The room was now in total darkness. No sign existed of its human occupant.

Henry Arnaud had not stirred from his chair. But now, his eyes were turned toward the window.

Blocks away, they saw the glow of an illuminated district. Henry Arnaud was looking toward the strangest and most fascinating district of America — San Francisco’s Chinatown.

The lights from that cluster of steep-pitched streets betokened a merging of Occidental invention with the glamour of the Orient. There, within sight of this hotel, dwelt the largest settlement of Chinese outside of China itself.

Electric signs glowed with Chinese characters. These were accompanied by English words. It was upon one such sign that Henry Arnaud’s eyes were focused. This sign bore the large words:

MUKDEN THEATER.

The sign itself was a bizarre Oriental creation. Rows of colored lights crawled dragonlike from the lower corners until they reached a glittering ball of resplendent incandescents near the top of the sign.

Above these was a small circle of yellow lights that did not move. From the center of the circle shone two lights of green, placed side by side. They seemed a challenge to the man who watched them from the window of the hotel.

An imaginative person — had Henry Arnaud been such — might have sworn that those lights were staring back at him.

Click! The lamp came on in the room. Henry Arnaud arose from his chair and walked about. He doffed his coat and vest. He removed his collar and necktie. He went to the telephone and ordered ice water.

When the bell boy arrived, Arnaud opened the door and stepped into the hall to receive the pitcher. He yawned as he tipped the servitor.

“Leave a call at the desk for me,” he said. “Tell them seven thirty — and to keep on ringing until I wake up. I’m dead tired. I’ll be sleeping soundly ten minutes from now, and it takes lots of noise to arouse me.”

“Yes, sir,” responded the bell boy.

The door closed. The lock clicked. The bell boy returned to the elevator and stood waiting in the deep silence of the hall.

The Aldebaran was a gloomy hotel. When the bell boy had gone down in the elevator, the place was as still and as morbid as a morgue.

ACROSS the hall from Arnaud’s room, a door was ajar. Eyes were peering through the crack of that door — eyes that stared with a sinister purpose. They were glued upon the single exit from Arnaud’s room. They were waiting and watching, making sure that the guest in 806 did not leave.

Now a figure appeared from the door. It was a grotesque, crouching figure that crept slowly forward, making no noise as it advanced. The clothes that it wore were dark; but the face above them bore a yellow tinge.

In action, although not in guise, this creature bore the semblance of a Chinaman. His hands were close against his breast.

He listened outside the door of 806, his face now hidden from the light. This was a secluded portion of the hall. Yet the crouched man seemed ready to slide back to the other room at the first sign of an approaching person.

Within the room, Henry Arnaud again stood in darkness. The only indications of his presence that reached the man outside were the sounds that he made.

The clasps of the bag clicked as Arnaud undid them. He coughed slightly as he removed articles of apparel from the bag. The door of the wardrobe banged dully as he pushed it shut. Then the bed creaked as Arnaud flung himself upon it.

The noise of his breathing was interrupted occasionally by a slight cough. Then those sounds decreased, and there were steady minutes of prolonged silence.

The man outside the door was listening intently. With the subsidence of all sound, he moved, surely, but cautiously.

One hand came from his body. Deftly, he inserted a pass key in the lock of the door. The key turned. The other hand was upon the knob.

Softly, steadily, the door of Henry Arnaud’s room opened until it was ajar like that of the room across the way.

In this end of the hall, the light was dim and obscure. Even so, the filtering rays might have attracted the attention of a man awake upon the bed. But there was no sign to show that Henry Arnaud had stirred.

The sinister approacher took this as a good sign. He stepped softly into the room, and closed the door behind him.

He crept around the foot of the bed, and passed slowly by the half-opened window. He was close to the floor; the dim, reflected glow from Chinatown was not sufficient to betray the presence of the sneaking native who had come from that section of the city, to be here tonight.

But those vague rays of light did tell something of the man’s purpose. Something gleamed in one of the creeper’s hands. It was the blade of a long, vicious knife — the silent weapon of a noiseless assassin.

The crawling Chinaman stopped at the table by the head of the bed. He listened there; then loomed upward. His body extended over the bed. His knife was in his right hand, ready to deliver a well-aimed thrust. His left hand gripped the cord of the table lamp.

The hovering creature was one who planned his purpose well. He was ready to perform two operations simultaneously. That hand toying with the cord was prepared for its duty.

When the light came on, the knife blade would descend swiftly toward a vital spot before the sleeping victim could become cognizant of danger.

Click! The light was on. Its sudden glare revealed the face from the dark — the yellow, leering face whose peering eyes were seeking the helpless form of the man in the bed.

The knife blade gleamed beside that sinister countenance. But it remained suspended — motionless.

The bed was empty! Not only empty, but the covers were unturned.

Henry Arnaud was not there!

THE lean, leering face of the Chinaman became a hideous, glaring monstrosity. The stooping man wheeled quickly, looking for his prey.

With the lamp still lighted, he dropped beside the bed, and his peering eyes glared beneath. Arnaud was not hiding there.

Writhing serpentlike along the floor, the man approached the wardrobe — the only spot in the lighted room that afforded a hiding place.

The big door of the upright chest was latched — a sign that no one could be within. But the Chinaman intended to make sure. He was willing to rely upon his blade, even though his intended victim might be on the alert.

His clawlike hand clutched the little knob of the wardrobe. It drew the door open, and the Chinaman leaped into the space behind it, his knife blade launching for a thrust.

That deadly arm stopped midway. The wardrobe, like the bed, was empty!

Revolting though the yellow face had become, the look of perplexity now upon it was ludicrous. The man stood momentarily thwarted, but his bewilderment did not last. He sprang back across the room and extinguished the table lamp.

The sinister face from the dark had returned to the dark. But those insidious eyes were still searching. They peered from the front window of the room.

The head extended through the opening, and turned downward toward the street below, a drop of sixty feet. It appeared again at the side window. Here, too, it inspected a sheer drop of more than sixty feet.

The wicked face turned its gaze toward the distant glow of Chinatown. There, the sign of the Mukden Theater still displayed its roving change of lights. But the luminous circle at the top now presented a blank center. The two glaring spots of green had disappeared.

The Chinaman turned his eyes back into the room. His hands were buried against his body. The knife was there, waiting.

Ten minutes went by; then the crouching figure went back across the room and tiptoed to the other side of the hall. The door of 806 was closed and locked. But the tricked assassin waited, wondering.

Within the room, the dim glare of the distant lights was totally obscured by a black shadow in the window. Henry Arnaud had returned. He went noiselessly to his suitcase and took it with him to the window. He affixed the handle of the bag to a thin, suspended rope.

His body — virtually invisible — swung from the window. Long arms, reaching upward gripped a protruding row of bricks below the roof. With amazing agility, the man ascended and drew himself to safety. His bag came, up as he pulled the slender rope.

Across the roof he strode, toward the rear of the hotel. He slid down a wall to a lower building. His form seemed to dwindle away and disappear. His further descent was an action unseen.

Henry Arnaud had gone. He did not reappear. But in his stead, a tall, black-clad man arrived at the end of a narrow street, a block from the Aldebaran Hotel.

Stooping in the gloom, he compressed his suitcase into a small, compact bundle that disappeared beneath the flowing cloak that he wore. From beneath his slouch hat, this man peered forward with shrewd, gleaming eyes.

There, in the silence, hidden lips laughed, and their low, throbbing mockery made an eerie sound on the night air.

In the guise of Henry Arnaud, The Shadow had come to San Francisco! The Shadow — dread avenger, who menaced evildoers of the East — had come to the Pacific coast!

What was his purpose here? Did it concern the strange death of Stephen Laird? Had that event declared the existence of criminal hands whose actions could be ended only by the power of this one man who waged relentless war on evil?

Only The Shadow knew! Tonight he had thwarted the first of his hidden enemies. He had walked into a trap. He had tricked the assassin, the man whose hideous face had come from the dark.

Back in the hotel, that evil face was still on watch — its wicked eyes staring across the hall toward a room that was deserted.

The Shadow, strange wizard of the night, had learned why Stephen Laird had occupied that room. With that knowledge gained, The Shadow was gone. Only the echo of a weird, mocking laugh remained.

CHAPTER III

A MIDNIGHT CONFERENCE

TWO men were seated in the living room of an elegantly furnished apartment. One, the host, was attired in evening clothes. He was a man about fifty years of age.

His gray hair gave him a firm dignity. His eyes, mild and kindly, showed passivity, but with it, human understanding.

The visitor, plainly dressed, was about fifteen years younger. He had an air of assurance, and his chin portrayed the man of action. But now he possessed a patient attitude that seemed at odds with his natural inclinations.

It was he who was speaking; and he was choosing his words as he uttered them.

“I have come to you, Mr. Darley,” he said, “because you are a man who keeps confidence. You may be surprised by my visit. You may wonder what it is about. But you will quickly understand.

“I told you that my work concerned the Civilian Committee of San Francisco, of which you are the head; but I must explain that it is also of a nature that will make it a private matter between you and myself.”

Joseph Darley nodded slowly. He knew that this was an important meeting. He had received a telephone call that afternoon, from this man, who called himself Cleve Branch. Darley had arranged the appointment for midnight.

As chairman of the Civilian Committee, Darley held a most important executive position, and special meetings of this type were not foreign to his work. Therefore, he was definite in his reply.

“Whatever your purpose,” he said, “you can rely fully upon my keeping it confidential, Mr. Branch. I understand that you seek my cooperation in a certain enterprise. Whether or not I can give that cooperation, you have my absolute promise that whatever you may tell me shall reach no other person.”

“Very well,” said Branch. “My work, Mr. Darley, is in behalf of the Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice of the United States government.

Darley leaned forward in his chair. He realized now the prime importance of this visit. On former occasions, Darley had supplied valuable data to the government. Now, he understood, his services were to be sought.

“I have come to San Francisco,” continued Branch, “to make a thorough investigation of the activities of the Wu-Fan — and to learn more about its organizer, the Chinaman, Ling Soo.”

DARLEY leaned back in his chair. He considered the ceiling thoughtfully. When he spoke, it was plain that his mind was reverting to facts which he knew well, and was seeking to give in detail.

“Do you know Ling Soo?” inquired Branch.

“Yes,” said Darley. “I do. More than that; I know him well. He is a man with a complex brain. A Chinese idealist; and being such, he is difficult for us to understand.”

“What of the Wu-Fan?” asked Branch.

“Before I answer that question,” replied Darley, with a thoughtful smile, “I should like to know what impression you have already formed of the Wu-Fan. I ask that, because you are probably acquainted with its activities outside of San Francisco.

“In other words, you may have seen something of the effects; while I believe myself to be acquainted with the cause. Shall we work back from effect to cause? Or from cause to effect?”

“I can tell you what I know,” said Branch. “That is not difficult. When we first encountered the organization, we supposed it to be an offshoot of some Chinese tong. But we soon discovered that it was a different proposition.

“Our agents began to report that in virtually every city where Chinese lived, there were men of that race who appeared to be identified with the order. They are chiefly Chinese of the more enterprising class — restaurant owners rather than laundrymen.

“All wear an emblem like this” — from his pocket, Branch drew a white button that bore a golden dragon head — “and these are of different colors. We have seen many variations; and we have learned that there are certain rovers in the outfit — Chinese who move from one city to another.

“We have observed, also, that payments have been made by stationary members to the travelers. Questioning of members has produced only vague answers. There’s no one in the world who can tell you less than a Chinaman when he doesn’t feel like being questioned.

“But we have learned, from isolated cases, that some of these Chinamen have a pretty big idea of their importance. But more than that” — Branch extended his forefinger as he spoke — “it appears that there are a few Americans tied up with the outfit. They might speak — if we could locate them. But, though we hear of them, we never see them.”

“Americans,” said Darley thoughtfully. “Yes, Ling Soo knows a number of Americans; but I did not know that they were actively interested in his picturesque plans.”

“One was,” declared Branch shortly, “but he isn’t any more. That’s the reason why I am here.”

“You knew one?”

“I knew of him. He knew of me. He was to communicate with me. I was waiting. But he happened to die very suddenly.”

“How?”

“He was murdered. Not so many nights ago. Stabbed to death on the Mountain Limited, going East.”

“You mean the man Laird?” questioned Darley, in a surprised voice. “The man who was found dying on the observation platform?”

“THAT’S the one,” declared Branch. “If you read the newspaper reports, you may have learned that Laird wrote a letter shortly before he was killed. I rather suspect that the letter was addressed to me.”

“Remarkable!” exclaimed Darley. “This is somewhat amazing to me. You are sure that his death was caused by the Wu-Fan?”

“Not at all,” replied Branch. “I believe that his death was connected with the Wu-Fan; but how, I cannot tell.”

“Ah,” said Darley, nodding. “That is an important point. It brings up other elements. I may be able to offer a possible solution. Nevertheless, this theory comes as a surprise to me. Tell me, have you seen any other cases that resemble that of Laird?”

“No,” said Branch.

“You know nothing more about the Wu-Fan?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“Then,” said Darley, tapping the arm of his chair, “it is time that I told you what I know. You have seen only the confusing angles of the Wu-Fan situation.

“If you understand the Chinese nature, you will know that every individual has a habit of interpreting all important matters in his own way. That is one reason why centralized government has never been highly effective in China. It is the reason why a clear idea of the Wu-Fan and its purposes can be gained only by a study of Ling Soo himself.”

“And you know Ling Soo?”

“I do. The Wu-Fan, Mr. Branch, is primarily a San Francisco problem. It began here; it took hold here; and the Civilian Committee looked into it. I made the acquaintance of Ling Soo himself.”

“What did you find out about him?”

“I found him to be a cultured Chinese gentleman, an Oriental idealist, whose plans are as astounding as they are absurd.

“The Wu-Fan, Branch, is a curious paradox. It is both an imaginative dream of useless ceremony, and at the same time a gigantic scheme to make Ling Soo’s own race the dominating power in America!”

“You mean that Ling Soo thinks he can—”

“I mean that Ling Soo prides himself as being the emperor of a colossal domain that takes in all the United States; that when he says the word, his faithful followers will rule all! But at the same time, he is too wise to ever say the word.”

“But these men who work for him—”

“Ah! They are believers. He has divided the whole of this country into imaginary provinces. He has appointed viceroys and prefects. From them he collects tribute. In true Chinese fashion, he sells his great offices to the highest bidders.”

“Then there is danger that Chinese outbursts may occur throughout the country?”

“A danger?” Darley laughed. “Theoretically, yes. Practically, no. Ling Soo’s empire is a dream of the future.

“He estimates that the Chinese population is increasing more rapidly in America than the white. Today, the Chinese occupy what may be termed a subservient position, because they are such a small minority. But in years to come, they will increase until they constitute a powerful minority.

“Ling Soo foresees that, at that time, they will encounter persecution. They will be restrained by laws directed against them.

“Then — and then only — will the ruler of the invisible empire of these Chinese give the word. His viceroys will call upon their subjects to arise.

“The whole scheme of Ling Soo’s well-planned government will — according to his beliefs — go into effect. It will replace the existing government. Quickly and speedily.”

“The man must be crazy,” declared Branch. “It will take hundreds of years—”

“The Chinese think in terms of centuries — not in terms of years.”

“But the man’s schemes are treasonable!”

“If taken seriously, yes. But Ling Soo is too cagy for that. His organization cannot be considered as more than a harmless order with scattered members.

“On the surface, it is so vague and theoretical that to attack it would mean ridicule. Ling Soo is accumulating wealth, which he intends to pass to his successor, that the great cause may go on.

“Those traveling representatives of his are like the collectors whom the ancient Chinese emperors used to send into their provinces to gather funds for the support of the imperial Peking government.

“But in actual practice, these disciples of Ling Soo are the most law-abiding of all Chinese in America. As a result, our Civilian Committee organization felt that they needed our friendship rather than our opposition.”

“Because they behaved themselves?”

“Yes; and because they have incurred the enmity of lawless Chinese. The members of the Wu-Fan; peaceful and idealistic, feel that the tongs, with their wranglings, are detrimental to the progress of the great cause. They try to keep clear of the secret societies known as the tongs.

“In turn, the tongs see loss of power threatening them. So they are hostile, and the only thing that has prevented an outburst has been the fact that the Wu-Fan is large enough in San Francisco to protect itself if openly attacked.

“So, when you speak of death from the Wu-Fan, I know that you are mistaken. There have been deaths because of the Wu-Fan, but the Wu-Fan itself is free from blame.”

“I’m getting the point of it now,” said Branch. “This fellow Laird, who was undoubtedly doing some work for the Wu-Fan, may have crossed some tong leaders.”

“Exactly,” declared Darley. “If I had known more about the traveling activities of the Wu-Fan, I would have informed the government long ago — just as I have done in certain other matters.

“But I should state emphatically that if the Wu-Fan can be considered as a menace, all that lies in the distant future, and to oppose it at the present would be making great oaks out of newly planted acorns.”

“WELL, Mr. Darley,” said the Bureau of Investigation agent, “you’ve given me a real slant on this affair. You seem to know the inside workings; and from what you say, the Wu-Fan won’t cause us any worry.

“However, I’m here for one important purpose — to get a report at first hand. I want to see how the Wu-Fan works. I want to know all I can about Ling Soo. I want to get the real lowdown on Stephen Laird’s death.

“That’s a State affair — not a government proposition — unless it’s directly traceable to a widely working organization. I can use a complete report from your committee. But I won’t need it until after I’ve made my own.

“That’s what I’m out to get now — facts on the Wu-Fan. I want to know the best way to go at it. You’ve done your bit, but you can probably suggest the way for me to proceed.”

“By seeing Ling Soo,” responded Darley. “That takes you right to the source. He is quite willing to talk. Why not see him?”

“In what capacity?”

“As my friend — he never questions them. I have always taken members of the Civilian Committee with me when I have visited Ling Soo. Your name will mean nothing to him. In fact, I do not even have to introduce you, other than as an associate from my office.

“The membership of our committee undergoes constant changes as the members — outside of executives like myself — serve as volunteers without fee. We investigate affairs of the community and report them to the authorities if we deem it necessary.”

“And you have never reported the Wu-Fan?”

“Never — outside of stating that such an order happened to be in existence.”

“Then you have sanctioned it?”

“Practically. We have not censored it.”

Cleve Branch arose and walked in short paces, hands in pockets. He swung toward Joseph Darley and extended his hand.

“Thanks, Mr. Darley,” he said. “I have come to the right man. I’m leaving now — and when you’re ready — soon — I’ll count on you taking me to see this chap Ling Soo.”

“That will be tomorrow,” responded Darley, with an agreeable smile.

“Great!” said Branch. “I’ll phone you at your office.”

With that declaration, the government operative made his departure. Joseph Darley was alone, smiling to himself, as he recalled the interview. How vague, he thought, were the idea’s of those who saw things from the outside.

If the visit were to be made tomorrow, Darley realized, it must be planned at once. For the Chinese liked to arrange their affairs well in advance.

So Joseph Darley sat down at the telephone table in his apartment and called the Chinaman, Ling Soo, to tell him that he could expect visitors on the morrow.

CHAPTER IV

LING SOO

CHINATOWN was a splash of light the following evening, when Joseph Darley and Cleve Branch arrived there in the committeeman’s limousine. To Darley, a visit to this district was scarcely more than a matter of routine.

Cleve Branch, although familiar with portions of the Chinese settlement, still found it unusual. His observant eyes wandered here and there, peering toward the yellow faces of passing Celestials; noting carefully the appearance of Americans who were passing through the district.

Darley had purposely left the limousine on the border of Chinatown. Now, he led the way along a narrow thoroughfare that was comparatively level for this hilly portion of the city.

The two men passed by lighted Chinese shops. They turned a corner, and encountered a gay scene. On the right was the bizarre Mukden Theater, a playhouse which presented stars from the Orient. Branch noted the billings — in English and Chinese — that announced the arrival of popular actors from Shanghai and Canton.

They were on the opposite side of the street from the theater, and Branch, glancing across, noted persons idling by the entrance to the playhouse. Some were Chinese; others Americans.

Time moved slowly here in Chinatown, in this spot of the Orient dropped from its native soil.

Joseph Darley stopped at a door that lay diagonally across the street from the Mukden Theater. It formed an unpretentious entrance between two shops.

The committeeman led the way into this entrance. They passed through a plain, lighted hall. They reached a small elevator at the end of the passage.

Darley opened the door, and the men ascended in the lift. It was an automatic elevator that moved in a solid shaft.

They reached a spot that Cleve Branch estimated as two stories above the street. The elevator stopped. They made their exit into a small anteroom. The atmosphere was altogether Oriental now. This silent spot seemed miles away from the street below. For here, with the elevator behind them, both men sensed the exotic setting of China itself.

Darley — a man who was a traveler — remarked upon it as he drew a tasseled cord which hung from the door at the other side of the anteroom.

“You are in China, now, Branch,” he said. “You will meet a man whose mind dwells in China. Not content with keeping aloof from the realities about him, he desires to spread the customs and traditions of his native land.”

THE door opened as Darley ceased speaking. A crouching servant, garbed in Chinese robes, stepped back that the visitors might enter. Cleve Branch eyed the man suspiciously.

A casual observer might have mistaken the man’s stooped position for a bow. Cleve realized that it was the Chinaman’s natural posture.

He felt a revulsion toward this servant of Ling Soo. The man seemed treacherous. Those half-closed, slitlike eyes returned Cleve’s glance.

If the impression of the servant was any forecast of the master, Ling Soo would be a man to watch.

The stooped Chinaman was gliding along a splendid hallway, with the two visitors traveling in his wake. He reached a pair of doors faced with hammered brass. Fantastic dragons writhed in bas-relief upon the panels.

The servant, as though performing a ceremony, bent low and touched his forehead with his fingertips. The doors swung inward of their own accord. The Americans walked through.

They were in a large, sumptuous reception room — large enough to be a meeting place. It was furnished in pure Chinese style. Oddly carved chairs were stationed about the room.

Cleve did not notice the decorations closely. He was interested in the figure at the end of the room. There, in a thronelike chair, rested a placid Chinaman.

The man’s face was like fine yellow parchment. He might have been fifty years old. He might have been a hundred. To estimate the antiquity of this blinking personage was impossible.

A living joss god, he sat in solemn state, while curls of strangely scented incense smoke rose languidly beside him from dragon-headed burners.

The face of this man — Ling Soo — was cryptic. It had a kindly expression, yet was Sphinxlike in its solemnity. The man’s eyes — almost gentle — blinked mildly through large-rimmed spectacles.

He was like a character in a play, Ling Soo; yet Cleve, as he approached him, realized that this was all a natural and subtle personality.

In fact, the government man was somewhat at a loss. He wondered how one began to treat with so unusual a character as Ling Soo.

Darley, as an act of courtesy, raised one forefinger and tapped his forehead. Ling Soo responded with the same motion. Now the Chinaman’s eyes were upon Cleve, gently questioning.

Cleve responded in the manner that Darley had done. The Chinaman returned the friendly salute.

This ceremony ended, Darley became businesslike. He drew one of the near-by chairs toward Ling Soo’s low throne, and motioned to Cleve to do the same.

LING SOO was the first to speak. Cleve, despite his previous contact with intellectual Chinese, rather expected Ling Soo to talk in pidgin English, for the man, Cleve knew, was one who upheld Chinese customs.

But here Cleve was surprised. Ling Soo, when he talked, displayed a marvelous facility with the English language.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” he said, in calm, easily enunciated words. “Greetings, to my friend, Joseph Darley — and greetings to his friend — who shall be my friend.”

“Good evening, Ling Soo,” said Darley politely. “This is Mr. Branch, one of my associates. I deemed it wise to see you tonight, and Mr. Branch kindly consented to accompany me.”

“His kindness does me honor,” commented Ling Soo. “He shall be welcome here whenever he may choose to come. Your friends, Mr. Darley, are pleasant ones to meet. They are what you say” — he paused only momentarily — “regular fellows. Am I not right?”

Darley laughed, and Branch joined in. Ling Soo beamed with pleasure. He seemed to pride himself upon his knowledge of American expressions.