Transcriber’s Note: Stories that were originally split over pages, with adverts and/or other stories in between, have been recombined.

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WEIRD TALES

The Unique Magazine

EDWIN BAIRD, Editor

Published monthly by THE RURAL PUBLISHING CORPORATION, 325 N. Capitol Ave., Indianapolis, Ind. Application made for entry as second-class matter at the postoffice at Indianapolis, Indiana. Single copies, 25 cents. Subscription, $3.00 a year in the United States; $3.50 in Canada. The publishers are not responsible for manuscripts lost in transit. Address all manuscripts and other editorial matters to WEIRD TALES, 854 N. Clark St., Chicago, Ill. The contents of this magazine are fully protected by copyright and publishers are cautioned against using the same, either wholly or in part.

Copyright, 1923, by The Rural Publishing Corporation.

VOLUME 1 25 Cents NUMBER 4

Contents for June, 1923

Sixteen Thrilling Short Stories
Two Complete Novelettes
Two Two-Part Stories
Interesting, Odd and Weird Happenings

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Paul Ellsworth Triem’s Latest Novel

The Evening Wolves

An Exciting Tale of Weird Events

CHAPTER ONE
AH WING RECEIVES A CLIENT

A taxicab stopped on the corner, and two people got out. They formed a decidedly incongruous pair; for the first to alight was a diminutive Chinese boy, scantily dressed, while his companion appeared to be a portly white man.

It was impossible to be sure of this fact, however, as this second passenger wore a long overcoat, with its ulster collar turned up around his face, and a dark cloth cap with the visor drawn down over his forehead and eyes.

Evidently the cab driver had been paid in advance, for he swung out from the curb as soon as his fares had dismounted, and was soon out of sight. The Chinese boy glanced at his companion, then set off silently up a street whose central portion was paved with cobblestones.

He seemed to know just where he was going. He paused only once, to cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Then he resumed his journey.

He had seen that the man in the ulster was following; and now, after traversing half a block of squalid, deserted street, the youngster turned abruptly into a pestilential-looking alley. This alley lay close to the top of a hill, and for a moment the man and the boy, who appeared to be his guide, could look down over the roofs to where the gay lights of Chinatown twinkled alluringly.

Presently the diminutive Oriental paused just outside a doorway. The man who had been following him came up, with a curious suggestion of eagerness and suspicion. Looking over the shoulder of the figure before him, he was able to make out the entrance to a narrow flight of unlighted stairs, which plunged steeply into the earth beneath a dilapidated building.

“Do we have to go down there, boy?” the man demanded.

“All a-same down here, master,” the youngster replied. “You come close—I show you!”

He began to descend as he spoke; and the man, after a moment of hesitation, plunged through the doorway after him. His manner was that of one who is taking a horribly unpleasant remedy, hoping to cure a still more horrible disease.

The diminutive Chinaman reached the bottom of the stairs and waited for his companion. When he felt the man’s heavy hand on his shoulder, he turned to his right, advancing cautiously through an almost impenetrable darkness.

There was a smell of dry rot in this basement, and around their feet rats scampered and squeaked. The man’s hand shook, and his breath came with a hissing sound through his clenched teeth.

“Now we go down again, master,” the boy announced presently. He had paused and turned again to the right. “You keep close—I show you!”

A step at a time, they descended a second flight of stairs. On either side were rough stone walls, powdery with mildew. The man discovered this with his free left hand. Strange odors came to him. Abruptly a bell rang, somewhere in the bowels of the darkness below them.

The boy stopped in his tracks.

“Now you go down, master,” he commanded. “Ah Wing waiting for you—you go slow. Goo’-by!”

He slipped out from under the heavy hand that would have detained him, and the man heard him go scampering like one of the rats up the stairs and away through the upper corridors.

Terror gripped the man left alone there on the stairs. He felt that he was in a trap—and he had been evading traps so long now that they had become an obsession with him.

He cried out, hoarsely, and as he did so a door opened below and a flood of light shone out.

“Pray continue your descent, Colonel Knight,” a cultured voice commanded from somewhere within the lighted room whose door had just opened. “The stairs are quite secure, and I am awaiting you!”

With a plunge that hinted at desperation, the man addressed as “Colonel Knight” reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed to the door. He paused there for a moment, till his eyes adjusted themselves to the change in illumination. Then he stepped inside, and heard the heavy door close behind him.

The room he had entered was of considerable extent, but was almost destitute of furniture. There were bare walls, dusty with green mildew; and bare floors, covered with layers of dust and litter. There were two chairs, one of which was already occupied.

And as the newcomer’s eyes rested on the occupant of that chair, all his doubts and fears returned to him. He had come to this unearthly spot to get away from almost certain death. Now he was not certain that the remedy would not prove worse than the disease.

The man sitting there, facing him, was dressed like a Chinaman, in silk trousers and coat, satin slippers, and black silk cap; but his eyes were of a metallic gray, and his high, thin-bridged nose spoke of Nordic blood. He would have been tall had he been standing. His hands were lying passive in his lap, but they were the hands of a man of great physical power.

And above all these details and beyond them was something the man in the ulster could not quite define—a radiation of power, as if the intellect and will of this strange being seated before him saturated the atmosphere of the empty room.

“Pray be seated, Colonel Knight!” the man in the chair said courteously. “I am glad to meet you. You have been recommended to me by a former student of mine—you know that I take only a few cases. It will be best for you to tell me your story, fully and accurately.”

Colonel Knight lowered himself into the empty chair. His eyes still peered out through the gap in his collar, and seemed to be fastened on the face of the man before him.

Then, slowly and grudgingly he removed his cap and turned down his collar, disclosing the pouchy face of a man well advanced into middle age. It was a face suggesting daring and resourcefulness, this face of Colonel Knight; and for a few moments the two sat staring curiously at each other.

“I think I can condense that statement I have to make,” the white man said finally. “I am a man of wealth. Five years ago, while traveling in Europe, I had the misfortune to attract the attention of the greatest gang of international thieves ever organized. Perhaps you have heard of them? They were called ‘The Evening Wolves,’ and were led by a man who called himself ‘Count von Hondon’.”

He paused for an instant to regard his companion curiously, but the Oriental merely bowed and sat impassively waiting.

“These men must have followed me about for some time before they struck. Finally they saw their chance. I was packed to leave Paris for Belgium, and they undoubtedly figured that I would have much of wealth with me.

“I did—but I had other things they had overlooked. I had my pistols, and I am a dead shot. I killed two of the robbers, and the rest fled. I supposed that would settle the matter, but I was mistaken. Five members of the gang were left alive, and they swore to be revenged upon me. They have followed me—”

A bell rang shrilly somewhere close at hand, and Colonel Knight leaped from his chair and looked wildly at his companion.

“What was that?” he cried. “That bell rang when I was descending the stairs—”

“Someone followed you here,” the other replied, “and is now trying to reach us. Pray continue!”

“But that man upon the stairs—”

“We will come to him presently. Let me ask you to finish!”

“There is nothing more! I have been followed for years, and now a physical trouble is added—my physician tells me I am going blind. I can’t see to run—”

The Chinaman eyed his companion deliberately.

“Why lie to me, my friend?” he demanded presently. “You come to me for help, and you wish to steal my ammunition! Now let me reconstruct your story for you. You yourself are ‘Count von Hondon.’ You were the leader of the master crooks called ‘The Evening Wolves.’ Five years ago you and your men made a rich haul, and you decided that a time had come to retire, or perhaps to go in by yourself. You departed, taking with you the loot; and ever since it has been a running fight.

“Your old comrades could have shot you outright, but that would not restore to them the booty you stole. And you have not dared dispose of it, because it was the only thing that stood between you and death! You see, you can’t lie to me. Every lie carries its trade-mark with it, to those who have eyes to see. Now I shall ask you but one question, and let me warn you—if you lie now, you will never leave this place alive!”

He stood up and thrust an accusing finger toward the cowering thief.

“Tell me,” said the Chinaman, “the name of the person whom you and your men robbed!”

The beady eyes of Colonel Knight, or “Count von Hondon” as he had once been known in every capital in Europe, glittered with suspicion and fear. His breath caught in his throat, and he unfastened his collar with trembling fingers.

“The name,” he said hoarsely, “was—was—”

Ah Wing crossed toward the heavy door and laid his hand upon the knob. His metallic eyes blazed, and he looked down with fierce contempt upon the man trembling before him.

“Will you answer?” he cried. “Or shall I open this door?”

“It was a woman!” Knight whimpered. “Her name was—Madame Celia—”

He broke off and stared at the Chinaman, towering there before the door. Ah Wing had neither spoken nor moved; but there was in the room a disturbance as if a great voice had shouted out a curse.

Slowly the Chinaman came back toward his visitor. His face now was the impassive face of a carved Buddha.

“Colonel Knight,” he said gently, “the high gods have undoubtedly brought you to me. I am the only person in the world who can save you, for I work outside of the laws of men. And I will take your case, now that I fully understand it. But first I will ask you to show me the Resurrection Pendant which you stole from Madame Celia!”

The white man got slowly to his feet, his hands groping at his throat, his eyes protruding, his face the color of dough.

“The pendant!” he whispered through ashen lips. “The Resurrection Pendant! You know—you have heard?”

“Show me the Pendant,” repeated Ah Wing inexorably. “I know that you brought it with you tonight, just as I know that you intended, in case I refused to take your case, to try to disappear without returning to your hotel. Show me the Pendant!”

With faltering hands and without removing his fearful eyes from the face of his companion, the crook reached inside his ulster and drew forth a package wrapped in brown paper. This he slowly unfastened, disclosing a jewel case. More and more slowly his fingers fumbled with the catch.

There came a sound from the door—a voice that seemed to have difficulty in filtering through the heavy panels.

“Come out of that, Count! We got you over a barrel! Come out—”

The massive door shook under a terrific blow, as from a sledge. The man in the ulster seemed about to crumple to the floor.

Ah Wing spoke coldly.

“Show me the Pendant!” he repeated. “They cannot break down that door, but if you trifle with me I will open it!”

With hurried fingers the terror-stricken crook threw back the cover of the jewel case, disclosing a mass of diamonds, intricately and skilfully assembled into a great pendant.

CHAPTER TWO
UNDER CHINATOWN

Ah Wing took a long stride, which brought him close to the man who held the jewel case.

The Oriental’s steely eyes were fastened unwaveringly upon the pendant, whose history for half a century had been transcribed in suffering and death. Misfortune had followed this unique assemblage of perfect stones: death and insanity; the breaking of friendships; the treachery of children toward parents; the murder of lover by lover. And now the mysterious Chinaman seemed to have fallen under the spell of the gems, for he was taking in every detail of their perfection.

For a moment the assault upon the door had ceased, but now it was continued. Heavy blows fell, and the walls of the subterranean apartment shook.

“It will not take your friends long to discover that they cannot reach us by that route,” commented Ah Wing tranquilly, turning at last from his inspection of the Resurrection Pendant. “The door has a middle sheeting of boiler iron. It is bullet proof.”

He reseated himself, motioning for Colonel Knight to do the same. Absently he watched the white man close the jewel case, wrap it carefully in brown paper, and return it to his ulster pocket.

“And now,” continued the Chinaman, “I will ask you to tell me about these men. You say there are five of them? Please describe them to me, one at a time. Tell me all that you can remember as to physical and mental characteristics—I want every detail you can give me.”

Colonel Knight sat down heavily. It was obvious that the assault upon the door was shaking his nerves so that he could hardly command his voice. His eyes were the eyes of some hunted thing, which sees itself at the end of a blind alley.

With an evident effort, he tore his glance from the quivering panels and fastened it on his companion.

“Yes,” he said hollowly, “there are five of these men, and they have been chosen from the elite of the criminal world. I myself selected them and trained them. Each has his special ability. I will begin with the man whom I considered the brainiest of them all—the one who was almost my equal in planning and executing a really big robbery. His name is Monte Jerome.”

Suddenly the blows on the door ceased; and the room was so still, after the ferocious assault, that it seemed to press on the ear drums of the speaker. He winced and for a moment was silent. Then, resolutely he continued:

“Monte is thirty-five years old. He is less than five feet six, but is broad shouldered and powerful. He grew up in the alleys of a large city. He fought his way to the leadership of gang after gang, and at the time I picked him up was looking for new worlds to conquer. I chose him because of four qualities: his physical strength; his native cunning; his lack of sentiment—or, as it is usually called, ‘mercy’—and his absolute freedom from superstition. Monte believes in neither God, man, nor the devil. He was my right-hand man—and it is to his merciless pursuit that I owe my condition!”

Ah Wing had drawn a note-book from his pocket and was jotting down data. He glanced placidly toward the door, which was again shaking under a rain of heavy blows.

“Pray continue!” said he.

Something of the Chinaman’s imperturbability was beginning to influence the white man. He went on with greater assurance:

“Next to Monte Jerome in total ability, I always placed the man we called ‘Doc.’ I never knew his real name. That was not important, as he went under many aliases. Doc was my means of approach to the wealthy men and women—and particularly the latter—upon whom I specialized. He is a university man, and has lived among people of wealth and refinement much of his life.

“He has brains, but lacks the quality of ruthlessness so important in really successful commercial crime. He is utterly selfish, I believe, but certain necessary factors in his profession are revolting to him—and he has never made the effort to put down this weakness. Physically he is prepossessing: an inch or two over six feet in height, blue eyes, light brown hair, splendid carriage; and possessed of the manners of a Chesterfield.”

A thin, faint voice came through the door, upon which the tattoo had momentarily ceased:

“We’ve got you, Count! Open that door, or we’ll gouge your eyes out when we break in!”

Ah Wing waved his hand affably toward the source of this ominous promise.

“And our friend out there?” said he. “Is he one of those whom you have described?”

“I was just coming to him,” replied Colonel Knight, raising a shaking hand to his forehead and mopping off the beaded perspiration. “That is ‘Billy the Strangler,’ and I think the ‘Kid’ is with him. Those were my Apaches—my gun men—my killers. They are much alike. Both have cunning of a low order; and persistence—they are like bloodhounds, once they are put on the trail.

“They have been Monte’s most useful tools in his pursuit of me. But both are superstitious, and their native bloodthirstiness has grown on them till they are little better than homicidal maniacs. The Strangler is tall and slim, with high cheek bones and lean arms which seem to be threaded with steel wires. The Kid is of medium height, with grey eyes and sandy hair.”

The assault on the door had again been discontinued. Suddenly there came from directly overhead a sound of splintering boards, accompanied by a rain of dust and bits of plaster. Knight sprang up and retreated, snarling, toward a corner of the empty room.

“Ah, I have been waiting to see if your old comrades would think of that,” he commented. “It gives us a line on their resourcefulness.”

Colonel Knight regarded him with drawn lips, which exposed his yellow teeth.

“For God’s sake, what are we to do?” he cried. “Are you armed? You sit there like a statue—”

“Pray continue your very interesting description,” suggested Ah Wing. “There remains one of your band whom you have not described. I must know about him—and then I will deal with this other matter!”

For an instant the thief glared into the face of the man seated across from him. What he read there steadied him a little, although the crash of splintering boards from above told him that the men he had such good reason to fear were meeting with less resistance in this direction than they had encountered in their assault upon the door.

“There remains but one,” he said hoarsely. “That is Louie Martin, my gem expert. Martin is one of the best judges of diamonds and pearls in the world. He is an expert in recutting and remounting stolen jewelry. And he has a wide acquaintance among the crooked dealers of this country and Europe—”

An extensive area of plaster broke away suddenly and crashed down, tumbling about the heads and shoulders of the two occupants of the room. At the same instant the end of a heavy gas-pipe crashed through the laths, and the voices of the men on the floor above were raised in a shout of ferocious triumph.

Ah Wing stood up deliberately and looked toward the ceiling. He seemed to be measuring the progress of the men opposed to him. Then, without hurrying he crossed the room toward a dimly lighted corner, where he stooped and opened a small door in the wall. This door was built in segments, like that of a safe; and was hinged with metal plates of enormous strength.

Colonel Knight, who cowered directly behind the Chinaman, felt a breath of cool, moist air, smelling strongly of earthy decay, blowing up from this diminutive doorway.

“Kindly precede me, Colonel,” commanded Ah Wing. “Watch your step—the going is rather precipitous!”

Knight stooped and made his way through the opening. He found himself on a stairway which went steeply down into utter darkness.

A cloud of white dust filtered up into the light of the electric bulb; and, as Ah Wing stood watching, a lithe human figure landed with a crash on top of the heap of plaster and splintered boards and laths.

In the same instant the Chinaman passed silently through the small doorway, and his companion heard him slipping the bolts into place.

The darkness which had suddenly clutched them was so intense that it seemed to have physical substance. A squeaking sound from above brought Knight’s face swiftly up. Something cold and reptilian flapped into his eyes and, with another squeak, was gone.

“Only a bat!” said Ah Wing softly. “Rest your hand on my shoulder and feel your way a step at a time. I will turn on my flashlight!”

A conical beam of light drilled through the darkness below them, and Ah Wing’s companion saw that they were descending a narrow flight of stone steps that seemed to terminate in a panel of utter blackness. The walls on each side were damp; and pallid fungi had taken the place of the mildew of the cellars above.

“For God’s sake, where are we?” the white man demanded through chattering teeth. “This looks like the shaft of a mine!”

“This is part of the underground system which made Chinatown famous, before the disaster of 1906,” replied the Oriental. “Few white men have ever been down here—particularly of late years!”

He paused. They had reached a narrow landing, from which passages branched in half a dozen directions. Another descending stairway yawned ahead.

“If I were to leave you here,” smiled Ah Wing, “you would never find your way out! You could not go back the way you have come, for there are acute-angled branches which would confuse you. Most of them end in masses of rubbish, easily dislodged by the unwary! But with me you are safe!”

His voice had an ominous softness. Knight followed down along the second flight of stairs. His heart was pounding. Suppose these crumbling walls should collapse! Suppose this unearthly being, in whose hands his safety lay, decided to rob him!

Ah Wing spoke abruptly:

“We have been following down the face of a hill. Now we reach the level, and here we leave these catacombs!”

He turned sharply to the left and led the way along a short passage which terminated in a second diminutive door. Ah Wing shot back the bolts and motioned for his companion to proceed him into the room beyond.

Knight obeyed. Daylight was there—white, blazing daylight! He blinked as he crept through the opening.

Next moment he tried to cry out. An arm had passed in front of his body, pinioning him. In the same instant a sinewy hand came close to his face, and there was a little tinkle of broken glass—a diminutive globule had been broken under his nose.

The thief struggled to turn his head aside, fought to keep from breathing in the stupefying fumes; but with a smothering gasp he surrendered.

He breathed deeply, and as he did so a sudden feeling of lightness and of expansion came upon him. In the act of wondering stupidly what this substance was that the Chinaman had forced upon him, his mind went blank.

Ah Wing continued for a moment to hold his hand over the mouth and nostrils of his victim. Then he carried Knight across the room and laid him on a divan. Turning deliberately, he pressed an electric button.

Somewhere in the brooding silence of the building, beyond this room, a deep throated bell rang clamorously.

CHAPTER THREE
THE EVENING WOLVES

High in an apartment house, overlooking a street and something of the city, Monte Jerome, leader of the Evening Wolves, sat at his ease, a cigarette in the corner of his thin, merciless mouth, a telephone within reach.

From the back rooms of the apartment came the sound of heavy breathing, intermingled with an energetic and unmusical snore. Louie Martin, gem expert for the gang, and “Doc,” their society specialist, were sleeping.

Monte listened critically to the heavy breathing. He was an expert in such matters, and his seasoned judgment told him that neither of his comrades was faking sleep.

With a nod of satisfaction, he stood up and walked soundlessly into the corridor connecting the rooms, stopping first in that occupied by “Doc,” and then in the back room where Louie Martin was sleeping. In each room he paused long enough to make a thorough search of the clothing of the sleeping robber.

Monte went expeditiously through all the pockets, and even examined the linings. Just a little exhibition of the honor that obtains among thieves: Monte Jerome knew that his leadership depended on his ability to command his companions’ unwilling respect, and he was taking no chances.

“I got a hunch Doc is thinking of ditching the gang, and going it for himself,” Monte murmured as he returned toward the front room. “If he thinks—”

The ’phone bell rang suddenly, and the man on duty crossed to the instrument.

“Yes?” he said.... “Oh, hello, Billy.... What’s that—Hell’s bells! Got away! Get busy and find him—”

The voice of the Strangler came to him over the wire.

“Keep your shirt on, Chief!” it commanded. “You better come down here and see for yourself what we was up against!”

Two minutes later Monte was shaking Louie Martin awake.

“Come to life!” Monte grated. “The Count has made his getaway! You get into your clothes and tend ’phone! This is one hell of a mess!”

Martin climbed sluggishly and unwillingly out of bed.

“You’ve been running things,” he snarled. “If you’ve got ’em in a mess, it’s no one’s fault but your own!”

At a corner on the outskirts of Chinatown, Monte alighted from his taxi. This was a special machine, owned and operated by a crook who dealt indiscriminately in transportation, dope and bootleg whisky.

Monte commanded this worthy citizen to await his return, and plunged into a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys.

A shrill whistle sounded presently, and he saw the Strangler beckoning him from a doorway. Crossing over, Monte followed his henchman into an alley, down a flight of narrow stairs, and into an unlighted basement. Here they were joined by the “Kid,” who carried an electric torch.

“Come on, Chief,” the “Kid” commanded. “We’ll show you first what we was up against—watch your step! If you stub your toe you’ll land in hell!”

They turned and went down another stairway, narrower and steeper than the first. At the bottom their way was barred by a heavy door, studded with great iron bolts. In one place the wood had been battered away, disclosing the gleaming surface of a steel panel.

“We followed the Count here, and thought we had him cornered,” the “Kid” drawled, rolling his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other and regarding Monte through lazy, sardonic eyes. “When we saw we couldn’t get through this way, we went up to the floor above and come at him through the ceiling. Come along—we’ll show you!”

They went back up one flight of stairs and entered a room which evidently had long been unused. Its walls were crumbling, and in the middle a great hole had been torn in the floor. The Strangler, who was leading the way, crossed over to this opening and unhesitatingly disappeared through it. Next moment a yellow light filtered up through the opening.

“Down you go, Chief,” commanded the “Kid.” “This was the door we made!”

Monte made his way down through the opening, landing on the upper of two chairs which had been piled precariously together to assist in the descent. He was followed by the “Kid,” and the three crooks stood examining the room in which Ah Wing and Colonel Knight had held their conference.

Monte spoke with a snarl.

“All right, you two!” he cried, “Here is where he was! Where is he now? Come across with your alibi!”

His two companions exchanged significant glances and the “Kid” took a slouching step closer to Monte.

“Look here, Chief,” said he, “it ain’t gonna be healthy for you to talk that way to me! I’m not spielin’ no alibi. What I’m givin’ you is straight goods, and you better get that twist out of your mush and act like a gentleman!”

He paused; and his two crumpled ears, which spoke of vicissitudes in the prize ring, grew red as a rooster’s comb. His glassy gray eyes glared unblinkingly at Monte.

The latter was not afraid of either of these men, or of both of them together. Monte had the unflinching courage of the perfect animal. But he had no notion of breaking up a gang which might prove useful to him.

“All right, boys,” he agreed, more pacifically, although his dark eyes continued to glow like coals. “If you can afford to take it easy, you got nothing on me! Tell me what happened.”

“That’s more like it,” the “Kid” growled. “Now you’re talking like a gentleman, Chief! Well, we follows the Count here, and thinks we has him holed up. We can’t bust down that door—this is an old Chink gambling hell, and everything is stacked against a fellow that wants to get in. But we comes down through the roof—”

Suddenly the “Kid” paused. From somewhere behind there had come a sound as of the opening of a door. The eyes of his two companions followed his and together they stood, rigid and alert.

Slowly the back wall of the room opened out toward them. Unconsciously, the crooks shrank closer together. Their faces were drawn, their figures rigid.

The panel swung fully open, and a figure appeared in it. It was the form of a tall man, clad in black silk.

The three crooks stood staring at him silently. So unexpected had been his appearance that it had affected them with a sort of paralysis. Their mouths gaped open and their eyes bulged.

Serenely, the intruder stood looking down upon them; and then, with a courteous wave of his hand, he spoke.

“Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen!” said he. “My little affairs can wait—I will return later!”

He turned, and next moment the panel had swung silently shut behind him.

Monte Jerome was the first of the three to recover.

“Come on—we’ve got to get him!” he cried.

“That was the Chink we saw spieling with the Count,” the “Kid” cried hoarsely. “But, for the love of cripe, how did he get here?”

Monte snarled wolfishly:

“Ask him that! We’ve got to bust through here—”

His compact body landed against the panel. It shook, but refused to yield.

“Come back here! Now, all together!” bellowed Monte.

The three leaped forward and struck the partition.

This time it swung inward, slowly and without a sound. The crooks leaped through the opening, and the “Kid” flashed his torch. They were standing just inside a vast, windowless room, at whose farther side they had a glimpse of sagging timbers and ruined walls. Nowhere was there a sign of the man who had eluded them.

“Get a move on!” Monte growled throatily. His lip drew up and he snarled at his companions. “A hell of a bunch of crooks, we are! Why didn’t you take a shot at him, when you saw he was going to make a getaway?”

The “Kid” glared back.

“Cut out that kind of talk, Chief! You got a gat, and two hands! He buffaloed you just like he did us! Be a sport and take your medicine!”

A determined search of the ruined chamber yielded no results. The “Kid” dropped to his stomach and wormed his way under the mass of timbers at the farther side. He found the beginning of a stone-lined tunnel, which dipped abruptly into the earth.

Damp, mouldy air fanned his cheeks; and as he crouched, motionless, listening, a distant reverberation came to him from the bowels of the earth. It sounded like the clanking of a great iron door.

“Let me out of this!” he growled, as he backed toward his companions. “We got a fat chance of following that yellow devil into his hole. You go, if you want to!”

Monte shook his head. He had regained his poise, and he had been thinking.

“No use trying to follow,” he admitted. “We got to comb Chinatown for the two of them. They can’t live down in that burrow forever. But why did this duck show himself? He must have known we were here—he could hear us talking!”

The “Kid” smiled craftily.

“Maybe him and the Count left something,” he suggested. “We better have a look!”

“No, they didn’t leave nothing. I would have seen it if they had. I got an idea the Chink wanted us to see him! He stood there with his face turned into the light. Well, we got to find him! That’s flat!”

CHAPTER FOUR
THE MAN IN THE LIGHTED ROOM

The wolves shifted their quarters that night to a rooming-house on the edge of Chinatown, and the search for Colonel Knight and his mysterious companion, the tall Chinaman, began.

For three days they worked feverishly. Monte Jerome seemed never to sleep, and his temper was not at all improved by the ordeal. He drove his companions fiercely, and only the fact that they were playing for big stakes prevented open rebellion.

On the fourth day Monte and the “Kid,” who were loitering, alert but almost hopeless, in the entrance to a building in one of the narrow streets of the Oriental quarter, caught sight of a figure disappearing through a doorway. It was a tall figure, partly concealed by a light overcoat; but both of them leaped forward at the same instant.

“That was the Chink, sure as God made little red apples!” the “Kid” snapped.

They crossed the street. Several automobiles were drawn up close to the curb, among them a big blue limousine from which the Chinaman had stepped a moment before they identified him. Monte approached a well-dressed gentleman, who had just come out of the building, and asked him what was going on inside.

“This is the fall exhibition of the Iconoclasts,” the stranger explained good-naturedly.

He seemed to be sizing up the two crooks.

“I think you boys would enjoy it,” he added mischievously. “The admission is only fifty cents.”

Monte and the “Kid” bought tickets, and presently they entered a big room with a high ceiling, upon whose walls were hung a number of gaudy paintings. The newcomers stared round at the fifty or more spectators who were making the rounds of the gallery.

“Hell!” growled the “Kid,” “this ain’t no place for an honest strongarm man—Let’s beat it and send for Doc!”

Monte gripped his arm.

“Look!” he said under his breath. “Over there near the corner!”

The “Kid” looked stealthily as directed, and perceived the tall man in the gray topcoat. He was standing with his back to them, examining a red and yellow daub that looked like an omelette liberally seasoned with paprika.

“That’s him!” Monte whispered. “All right, Kid! You have Mike bring the cab down to the corner where we was waiting. Then, when this duck beats it out of here, I’ll hop in and we’ll follow him!”

Half an hour later the tall man in the gray coat—who in American garb looked more like an Oriental than he had when dressed as a Chinaman—paused to look deliberately at his watch, and then turned to the outer door.

By the time he stepped into the blue limousine, Monte had reached the corner and was climbing in beside the driver of the taxi. The “Kid” had the window down, and was kneeling with his head close to the driver’s.

“How ’bout it, Mike!” Monte demanded. “Can you keep ’em in sight?”

“Watch me!” snorted the driver. “There ain’t no Chink going can leave me behind. Did you see that chauffeur? Got a face like a monkey!”

There was no difficulty, for the present, in keeping the blue limousine in sight, however. It went sedately down a side street and took the turn toward the ferry. Five minutes later Monte and the Kid saw the cab in which they were seated draw in behind the larger car, and roll over the landing platform. The limousine was stationed on the right, and the cab on the left, of the big boat.

Monte scrambled down, and with a curt command to the other two made his way around to where he could see the enclosed car. The man in the gray overcoat was sealed inside, with a coffee-brown Chinaman in livery at the wheel. Monte kept them in sight till the ferry was approaching the slip. Then he hurried back and climbed in again beside the driver.

“Here’s where they’ll try to leave us behind, if they have any idea we’re following!” he predicted.

“Let ’em,” growled Mike. “If we don’t get took in by a speed cop, I won’t never let no Chink drive away from me! You boys just hang onto your bonnets, and watch us!”

The big blue car seemed to have accepted this challenge. The little man at the wheel swung out and passed half a dozen slower machines, then took the center of the road and held it.

With the coming of evening, a powdery fog swooped down over the ridges to the west, and suddenly the tail lights of the limousine shot up in the gloom ahead. Notch by notch, the Chinese chauffeur was adding to his speed. The lighter car behind bounced and swayed, and Mike spat through his teeth.

“Say, that bird must be clear nuts!” he growled. “If we get took in, they’ll sentence us to about five life-times! What say, gents? Want to let him go?”

“You keep going!” snarled Monte, staring hardeyed into the fog. “If we get pinched, I pay for it, see? But don’t you let that bird get away, if you want to sleep in your little bed tonight!”

Mike glanced sideways at the man whose elbow touched his. Something he saw in the stony face of Monte Jerome caused him to turn all his attention to the task in hand.

The tail lights had been growing dim, but now, slowly, the cab began to gain. Other cars, headed for the ferry, shot out of the fog and into it, honking warning horns at the crazily lurching machine that burned the road in pursuit of the blue limousine. The stony faces of the three men in the cab never deviated from their straight glare into the gloom ahead.

The speed of the big car was slackening. The driver of the cab grinned wryly.

“He knows the ropes. Speed cop in this burg ahead lies awake nights thinking up new ways of raising hell for speedy drivers,” he explained. “Now we’ll creep up on ’em a little more!”

They passed through the little town and again were in the open country. The limousine continued its more leisurely progress, however, and presently turned to the right into a dirt road. The cab dropped farther behind, at Monte’s command.

“They can’t get away from us on this road. Probably aren’t going far, and we don’t want them to spot us. Take it easy!”

The road seemed to be leading gently down, and presently they caught the gleam of water on each side. Rushes grew up close to the track; and from somewhere in the dusk the cry of a gull sounded like the wailing of a lost soul.

Involuntarily, the “Kid” shivered.

“Hell of a country!” he mumbled. “Where you reckon he’s headed for?”

“Wait and see!” snapped Monte. “Hello!—he’s turning in! That must be a private road! Stop here!”

He slid from the seat and stood swinging his feet alternately, to restore the circulation in them. Then he jerked his head into the darkness.

“Come on, Kid! We got to see what he’s up to!”

The “Kid” clambered out, and the two crooks struck silently up the road. They reached the turn and found, as they had guessed, that they were at the entrance to a private road.

Instinctively, the two men paused and stared in through the trees. Night pressed thick and damp about them. A wind from the southeast brought to them the smell of the marshes, and once the booming whistle of a steamer sounded. In a lull of the wind, the gulls were screaming.

“This ain’t in my line, Chief!” snarled the “Kid,” glaring into the darkness. “I can bump a guy off under the city lights as nifty as the next one, but this nature stuff never did set right on my stomach. Let’s go back!”

“You go back if you want to!” Monte said menacingly. “But if you do, don’t come sniveling around me later on. I’m going in there!”

He struck off along the winding road, and in a moment the “Kid” fell into step at his side.