*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79772 ***




  Jeff Clayton’s Surprise

  or

  The Lure of the Red Dragon

  By WILLIAM WARD

In this remarkable story a series of mysterious deaths, Jeff Clayton is
led to the conclusion that all are traceable to the same source. The
motive is a most mysterious one. It requires all the detective’s skill
and intelligence to find this motive, and in groping for it among the
mysterious people of the East, he meets with many strange experiences.
During his quest, Jeff rescues a young woman from White Slavery and
breaks up one of the worst dives in the Metropolis.

  Adventure Series No. 51

  COPYRIGHT 1910 BY THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY

  _Published by_

  THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY
  Cleveland, O., U. S. A.

[Illustration: SUDDENLY HE FOUND HIMSELF CONFRONTED BY THE CHINESE.]




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                PAGE

        I.  A Cry of Alarm                  7

       II.  In the Chamber of Death        19

      III.  “I am a Dead Woman!”           27

       IV.  An Unexpected Tragedy          38

        V.  The Lost Sign                  47

       VI.  The Dragon Stings Again        55

      VII.  Mystery Follows Mystery        63

     VIII.  On the Dragon’s Trail          76

       IX.  Jeff Feels the Fangs           91

        X.  A God Strangely Missing       101

       XI.  Where the Trail Led           108

      XII.  Where Dreams Are Made         117

     XIII.  The Detective Gets Busy       128

      XIV.  Facing the Yellow Peril       135

       XV.  The Dragon Aroused            143

      XVI.  In the Hands of the Enemy     152

     XVII.  The Key to the Mystery        160

    XVIII.  Conclusion                    168




Jeff Clayton’s Surprise.

The Lure of the Red Dragon




CHAPTER I.

A CRY OF ALARM.


“Come quickly! Come quickly! Stop the cab! Stop it, I say!”

A richly gowned woman leaped from a handsome private equipage, just as
the gay, fashionably dressed crowds were pouring from the Metropolitan
Opera House and the theaters.

It was the hour when Broadway was the gayest, when the lights were
twinkling the brightest, when the strains of light fantastic music
floated out from the cafés and popular restaurants, and gay chatting,
laughing, care-free throngs were surging in all directions at the same
time. Some were hurrying to reach their homes, while others were headed
for the restaurants where they would continue their evening’s enjoyment
in gay dining parties.

All within sound of the terrorized voice of the woman, halted. Quick
inquiries were passed from lip to lip, then all those, save the few who
had observed the incident passed on their various ways.

The carriage from which the woman had sprung, came to a sudden halt and
several men in evening dress leaped to her side.

“What is it? What is it?” came the quick, sharp inquiries from many
tongues at the same time. “What has happened?”

“My sister! My sister!”

“What of her?”

“Quick! I think she is dying. Why do you not help me?” she added in an
agonized tone.

At that instant, the men who had wanted to help her, but not knowing
what the trouble was, had been unable to do so, now started with one
accord toward the carriage from which there now might have been heard,
low suppressed moans.

But one, quicker of wit than the others, had already preceded them,
and in a single bound had sprang to the side of the carriage and
disappeared within.

In an almost incredibly short time they saw him step from the door of
the handsome equipage. But this time he bore in his arms a bundle of
shimmering silk and jewels which they at once made out to be a human
being--a woman.

Now, her moans were heartrending.

“Make way there,” cried the man who bore her as lightly as if she had
been a child. “Somebody get a doctor. I think she is dying. You lady,
come with me.”

After uttering these short, sharp commands, the resourceful stranger
carried the woman into the lobby of the Opera House from which the
people were still emerging.

“You’ll have to take her elsewhere. We are closing the house,” directed
an official of the place.

“I’ll bring her here until she gets medical attention,” answered the
man sharply. “Show me to a private room. Is the manager’s office open?”

“Yes, but you can’t go in there. You--”

“Lead the way.”

The official hesitated, but at a glance into the steady blue eyes
of the stranger he wheeled sharply, and, unlocking the door to the
manager’s office, stood aside while the stranger quickly carried his
burden within and laid it down on a lounge.

“Call for a doctor. I think this woman is dying.”

The attendant quickly hurried from the room. As he did so, the manager
entered.

“What does all this invasion of my private office mean?” he demanded.

“It means that we have a very sick woman here--a woman who, it looks to
me, is dying.”

“She can’t stay here. I’ll call an ambulance,” answered the manager
shortly, turning to the telephone.

The stranger laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort until I give you permission,” answered
the resourceful one, turning to the suffering woman.

Giving no further heed to the manager he bent over the patient, first
listening to her heart, then taking the pulse, after which he opened
her dress at the neck that she might breathe more freely.

“Who are you that you give orders here?” demanded the manager.

“My name is Jefferson Clayton. You may have heard of me,” answered the
famous detective without looking up.

“Clayton--Clayton--You mean you are--Are you Jeff Clayton, the
detective?”

“Yes.”

“Then, I beg your pardon.”

“Granted.”

By this time the suffering woman’s moans were becoming more and more
pitiful, now and then assuming the form of words expressive of her
terrible agony.

“If only I were a doctor. But this looks suspicious to me. This woman
acts to me--”

“Oh, my feet are getting numb.”

“Take off her shoes and chafe the feet, please,” directed Jeff, turning
to the woman’s companion.

She promptly complied with his request.

“My limbs are without feeling. Oh, I am slowly being paralyzed. Help
me, help me, oh, won’t you help me?”

At that moment a doctor, case in hand, hurried in. He made a quick
examination.

“This looks to me like ptomaine poisoning,” he decided with a
convincing inclination of the head. “What has this woman been eating?
Does any one here know?”

“I do, I am her sister,” answered the other. “Perhaps that is true.
We ate broiled lobster for our dinner, but sister did not show any
symptoms of disturbance until after the theater when we had started for
home. She grew so rapidly worse that fearing she was dying I sprang out
and called for help.”

To this the medical man made no reply. He was administering a
hypodermic injection and forcing some medicine between the woman’s
set lips. At his direction the other woman had removed her sister’s
rich waist, then loosened and withdrew the corset. As she did so, the
sufferer’s right arm, white, beautifully moulded, dropped listlessly
over the side of the couch.

As it did so, the woman who had only a short time before called for
help, sprang back with a piercing scream. She staggered backward with
both hands holding tightly to her forehead, then fell to the floor in a
death-like swoon.

“Take care of her. I’ve got my hands full if I expect to save this
woman’s life,” directed the physician. “She must be hysterical.”

“I am afraid it is something more than that,” replied Jeff Clayton,
with a slow shake of his head, at the same time picking up the fallen
woman and placing her on a sofa at the other side of the apartment.

His first move was to reach for the doctor’s case. From it he
selected a bottle, smelled gingerly of the cork, then with a nod of
satisfaction, held it under the nose of the patient.

In a few moments the woman stirred uneasily and shortly after, Jeff was
gratified to note signs of returning consciousness.

“How is she?” questioned the doctor.

“Coming out of it.”

“Good.”

“How is the other woman?”

“I can’t say as much for her. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to save her.
It is ptomaines. There can be no doubt about that?”

“I was not aware that ptomaines acted quite so suddenly,” objected the
detective, with eyes on his own patient.

The doctor glanced at him sharply.

“You a doctor?”

“No, I’m just a plain detective,” replied Jeff.

“Oh, my heart. Oh, God, I’m dying!” shrieked the first patient throwing
both hands to her breasts.

A convulsive shudder ran over her frame, the body writhing as if
undergoing terrible torture, then the muscles seemed to draw tight in
face and body.

“She’s dying,” announced Jeff in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“You had better remove her before this one gets fully out of her faint
or we shall have another scene.”

“She’s gone,” announced the physician, as with hand on pulse, he peered
down into his patient’s face.

“Too bad,” murmured Jeff.

The physician dropped the lifeless hand.

In the meantime, Jeff had motioned him to the live woman, and turned
the knob of a door at one side of the office. It proved to open into
another office, a sort of reception room. Stepping in he switched on
the lights, then stepping back, picked up the unconscious woman and
carried to the second room, followed by the doctor.

“I must say you are a most resourceful young man,” smiled the doctor
with an approving nod.

“Thank you. What sort of a certificate are you going to give for the
dead woman in there?”

“Ptomaine poisoning, as I told you,” answered the physician promptly.

To this Jeff made no reply.

“Will you take this patient off my hands now?” he asked.

“Certainly. However, you seem to be doing all that I could do. May I
ask your name?”

“Jefferson Clayton.”

“Oh!”

But Jeff by this time had relinquished his patient and stepping into
the chamber of death quickly closed the door behind him.

“A most remarkable man,” muttered the physician. “I have heard much of
him in the past. I wonder what his motive is in retiring to the room
where the corpse is. That he has a motive, is a certainty, for, judging
from what I have heard from Jeff Clayton, he does not do anything of
that sort without a very strong motive. But, I am sure of my diagnosis.
There can be no doubt of it.”

While this was running through the doctor’s mind, the detective was
standing looking down into the pale dead face, stroking his chin
thoughtfully.

“It was not hysterics. Of that I am sure. Something that the woman saw
in this face, caused her to scream and faint. I shall have to question
her. It looks to me very much like a mystery--a tragedy. Yes, that’s
what it is. And they are people of consequence. That is a sure thing. I
am inclined to think that this may be worth looking into.

“Let me see. What was occurring when the sister screamed and went off
in a dead faint? Ah, I remember. She had just removed the waist and
loosened the corset.”

Jeff gently pulled the drapery aside and lifted the lifeless arm from
its resting place at the side of the couch.

As he did so he uttered a sharp exclamation.

The detective had discovered something.

Bending over the listless arm, he peered long and earnestly at it.
What he saw was a livid mark with a tinge of red in it, and as he gazed
the mark appeared to assume shape and form as if it were growing under
his intent gaze.

“I wonder what it can mean?” he murmured.

Drawing a small magnifying glass from his pocket he held it over the
spot that had attracted his curiosity and attention.

“Huh!” he exclaimed. “A tattoo mark on a society woman is not a usual
thing. But there can be no mistake about it. A red dragon has been
pricked into the flesh, and I am sure it has not been there very long
at that. This makes it all the more peculiar. Still, I presume it is
none of my business. The tattoo mark certainly did not cause her death
or have anything to do with it--”

Jeff paused sharply.

“Didn’t it? How do I know that it didn’t?” he asked himself. “I have
jumped at a conclusion. Just what I am always warning my associates not
to do. The red dragon of course was not the direct cause of the woman’s
terrible death. Still, remotely, it may have more to do with it than I
have any idea of at the present moment.”

The detective, after a few moments of further examination, together
with a careful looking over of the rare jewels with which the dead
woman was bedecked, returned his magnifying glass to his pocket. Then
he turned and entered the other room, quickly closing the door behind
him, that no view might be had of the dead woman that he had left there.

He found the sister lying with wide open eyes, her face pale, and eyes
staring up at the ceiling.

She turned slow questioning eyes upon him.

Jeff stood looking at her and for a brief instant their eyes met,
holding each other in a steady gaze. The detective inclined his head
almost imperceptibly in answer to the pleading question in her eyes.

That she understood he knew at once, for the woman’s eyelids fluttered
together while great teardrops forced their way from between them and
trickled down her cheeks.

The physician glanced up at the detective inquiringly. He did not
understand what had caused the change in the face of his patient, nor
did Jeff enlighten him.

“Nothing serious, is it?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Heart a little weak, but I think she will be able to be taken home in
a very short time. Will you attend to that?”

“Yes, if madam will permit. If you will give me a moment with her as
soon as you deem it wise to permit me to question her, I will find out
what is best to be done in the matter.”

“Certainly. But I think she had better not be told just yet.”

“That will not be necessary. She knows already,” answered Jeff to the
surprise and amazement of the physician.

“Is this a case of mental telepathy, Mr. Clayton?” questioned the
medical man with a half quizzical smile on his face.

“You might call it that. I’ll talk with her now, if you don’t mind?”

“Certainly,” replied the physician bowing as he rose and stepped to the
opposite side of the room.

The woman opened her eyes as Jeff seated himself beside the couch on
which she was lying.

“If you will permit me, madame, I shall be pleased to see that you
reach home safely and to do whatever else you may require of me.”

“You are very kind,” she murmured.

“May I ask your name?”

“Delano--Margaret Delano,” was the whispered response.

“And the--the other is your sister?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live--where do you wish me to take you?”

“Home.”

“What address?”

“Fifty-seventh street--number --.”

“Is there any one there that you would wish me to notify in the
meantime?”

“There is no one there except the servants. My father and brother are
both away. My brother is in Europe and my father in Chicago. My sister,
Jane and myself were keeping house alone during the absence of Papa.”

Once more she broke out into a flood of tears.

After the storm had subsided a little Jeff pressed the question that
had been in his mind since he began speaking with her.

“Do you wish to tell me anything?”

“No.”

“Will you not tell me what caused your sudden cry of alarm?”

“I--I was sure my sister was dying,” was the half evasive answer.

“Yes, but there was something more--something in addition to that? Will
you tell me what it was?”

For a full moment the eyelids remained closed, but Jeff noted as he
gazed into Miss Delano’s pale face, that the lines of it drew tense and
rigid.

“Is your father Mr. James Delano, the wealthy jewel collector?” he
asked with a view to taking her mind from its strained attitude.

“Yes,” she replied, suddenly opening her eyes. “How did you know?”

“Perhaps I guessed it. Will you answer my previous question now?”

“What was that?”

“Why did you faint--what happened to cause you such a sudden fright?”

“I have already answered that question.”

“I beg your pardon. You have evaded it.”

“What right have you to question me in this way, sir?”

“None at all, my dear Miss Delano. I have no rights whatever in the
matter. In my anxiety to help you in what I know to be a serious
situation perhaps my zeal led me to go further than I should have done.”

“No, no. You have been very kind,” she murmured. “I do not know how to
thank you.”

“Please do not try. As soon as you are able I shall, with your
permission, take you home.”

“Please do.”

“You had best lie quiet for a few moments longer--”

“Why do you think that there is another reason for my having made
such an exhibition of myself? Surely the death of one’s only sister
should be sufficient reason for such a collapse as mine,” said Margaret
returning to the subject.

“That is true. However, in this instance I happen to have observed that
you were suddenly thrown into a condition of terrible excitement. It
was as if you had made some startling discovery--something that seemed
to all at once explain your sister’s unfortunate condition.”

“Don’t, don’t, please don’t!” suddenly exclaimed the young woman. “Who
are you that you should--”

“Please calm yourself. I have no wish to disturb you. I will call your
carriage if it is still outside and take you home at once. After that
I will make such other arrangements as seem best. Do you wish me to
notify your father?”

“If you will. I will give you the address when we reach home.”

Jeff rose and left the room abruptly, motioning for the physician to
follow.

The moment the two men had closed the door leading out into the lobby,
behind them, Margaret Delano sprang from the couch. She seemed to have
thrown off her weakness with their departure.

With a sudden movement she slipped to the outer door, listened intently
then, hearing the men engaged in conversation with a third person in
the theater lobby, the young woman slipped swiftly into the manager’s
private office where her sister lay pale and still.




CHAPTER II.

IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.


“Mr. Clayton, I want to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead, Doctor,” smiled the detective.

“You don’t agree with my diagnosis in this case?”

The two men were awaiting the return of the manager who had gone to
another part of the house for a moment, Jeff in the meantime having
sent for an undertaker whom he knew, as the body could not remain in
the theater all night. At least it was not desirable that this be the
case.

“What makes you think so?”

“Your actions.”

“Humph! Do I wear my thoughts on my sleeve to that extent?”

“No, I should scarcely say that,” smiled the physician.

“Then what?”

“You forget that I was present when you were questioning Miss Delano.”

“Yes, you were, that’s so. But was there anything in my conversation
with the young woman to lead you to believe that I did not agree with
you?” asked Jeff with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Your asking the live one why she fainted. To me it seemed the most
natural thing in the world. I--”

“Why did she faint, Doctor?” twinkled the detective.

“Why, why--I--I--Hysteria--”

“Yes. I understand. But what caused the hysteria?”

“Her sister’s condition. Surely the woman had a right to be hysterical
when her sister lay dying in terrible agony--”

“Then, why didn’t she faint before?”

Jeff shot in the question so sharply, that for the moment the physician
did not catch the full import of it.

“Why--why--Why, I hadn’t thought of that?” he wondered. “Why did she,
Mr. Clayton?”

Jeff laughed softly.

“Being a physician you should be the better able to answer that
question than I. Surely we are equally interested in this case. There
should be no reason why you cannot tell me what you suspect.”

“I suspect nothing.” There was a smile on the face of the detective,
that puzzled the man of science. He was not sure whether Jeff was
laughing at him or not. Of course such was not the case. The detective
knew the doctor by reputation, knew him to be a man who stood high in
his profession, and to laugh at him in the sense of making fun of him
was far from the detective’s thoughts. But he did enjoy the perplexity
of his companion. “But, my dear fellow, let me make a suggestion, if I
may do so without offence.”

“Certainly, certainly,” replied the physician warmly.

“Mind you, I am not saying that your diagnosis as to the cause of
death is wrong. But on the other hand, I would suggest that you do
not give a certificate. Leave that for the Coroner. Neither of us are
vitally concerned in the present case, beyond the fact that we have
sought to do what our manhood called upon us to do.”

“That proves that I was right,” emphasized the physician.

“In your diagnosis?”

“No. In my surmise that you suspected--that you do suspect something of
which I know nothing.”

“I have told you that I suspect nothing, Doctor. I will admit, however,
that the case possesses some features that might be calculated to
arouse my suspicion were I engaged on it in my professional capacity.
As it is, I am no more than any other man in the city who might have
chanced to be called upon to do a suffering woman a service.”

“Yes, that is so. But you puzzle me. I am frank to say that your
reasoning goes too deep for me.”

“I think the undertaker’s wagon is driving up. Perhaps you had best
explain to the policeman who no doubt will be on hand, that you are a
physician and that the case is one of sudden death which you will refer
to the Coroner. I do not wish to be known in it for reasons of my own.”

“You are a most peculiar man, Mr. Clayton,” mused the doctor.

“So I have been told before,” laughed Jeff. “I must get Miss Delano and
take her home now.”

“That’s so. I had forgotten all about the woman. And we have left her
alone in there.”

“That is what she wanted us to do,” answered the detective
enigmatically.

“Now you are talking in riddles again,” marveled the physician.

To this, Jeff made no reply. Instead, he turned to the door of the
office where he had left Miss Delano. Had the physician been more
observant he might have noticed that his companion did not enter at
once. Instead, Jeff fumbled at the door-knob, for a few seconds, then
turning, addressed the doctor with some common place remark.

Opening the door he went in, followed by the man of medicine.

Miss Delano was lying on the couch as he had left her.

“Ah, I see you are feeling better,” glowed the detective. “Do you think
you will be able to ride home now?”

“Oh yes, thank you. Yes, I am feeling much better. I am ready to go
whenever you are.”

Jeff stepped to the door of the room where the body lay and, stooping
over picked up a delicate lace handkerchief which he returned to Miss
Delano with a courtly bow.

Her face flushed violently, but he pretended not to notice this. The
physician, however, did observe the movement, and to him it meant much
more than the mere act of picking up the flimsy bit of lace. He was
sure the handkerchief had not been there when they left the room. Yet,
instead of enlightening him the incident served to perplex the doctor
the more.

“Here is my card, Clayton,” he said in a low voice. “If you are by my
office some time I should feel honored if you would come in.”

“Thank you, I shall be glad to do so, doctor. But the card is not
necessary to identify you.”

“Not necessary?”

“No.”

“You--you know me, then?”

“I know your name.”

“What is it?”

“Dr. Edward Jameson.”

“Man, are you a wizard?”

“Not quite.”

“Then how in the world did you know. I will swear I never saw you
before?”

“Easiest thing in the world.”

“Will you tell me how?”

“With pleasure. I read your name on your medicine case,” answered the
detective, laughing softly. “Simple, isn’t it? No complicated deduction
about that, eh?”

Dr. Jameson brushed a hand across his forehead in a dazed sort of a
way, gazing at his companion wonderingly.

“You’ve got my head swimming as if I had been afflicted with a sudden
attack of vertigo.”

“Remember Miss Delano. Will you wait until I have gone, then attend to
those who are waiting outside?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Now, Miss Delano, if you are ready, I think the carriage is waiting,”
suggested Jeff.

“Thank you, I am ready.”

The detective offered the young woman his arm and with a grave bow to
Dr. Jameson, the man and woman left the room, followed by the perplexed
gaze of the doctor.

“I--I don’t believe he is making fun of me, but I never was more
puzzled in my life. I can well believe much of what I have heard of
that man. His is of a truth, a remarkable mind. I should like to know
him better.”

As Jeff and his companion passed out, the woman shuddered as she
glanced at the dead wagon that was waiting outside. The detective felt
the tremble of the arm that rested in his.

“That is your carriage, is it not?” he questioned to divert her mind
from the grewsome dead wagon at the same time pointing down the street.
He knew very well that the carriage mentioned by him was not the
woman’s.

“No, that is not mine.”

“Then, yours must be further down. I think I see it there just above
Fortieth street.”

Hurrying the woman along, he soon drew up to the equipage that he had
sent word to have held until the woman returned.

Jeff helped her in.

“Home,” he directed, then sprang in by her side closing the door with
a slam. He did not wait to ask permission. Jeff had his reasons for
wishing to accompany Miss Delano home, for despite his reasoning that
he had no right to pry into affairs that were none of his concern,
he still could not suppress his interest. Jeff felt sure that there
was something that would prove of great interest to him in the matter
could he but fathom it. He had no doubt that the answer lay deep
down--perhaps the skeleton in the closet, of which there were many
among the Four Hundred of the Metropolis.

Not a word passed between them until the carriage drew up in front of
the imposing brown-stone mansion in West Fifty-Seventh street, which
was the home of the Delanos. No need to tell one that they were people
of distinction. No common people could live in a palace such as this.

Jeff helped the young woman from the carriage.

“Will you come in?” she asked.

“Thank you no--”

“I wish it,” she made quick reply.

“That is different. I shall be glad to.”

He was quickly ushered into a spacious drawing-room, where low lights
softened the rich furnishings of the place, and motioned to a chair.
Miss Delano threw off her opera cloak and seated herself before him.

“Now you may tell me what arrangements you have made?”

Jeff went directly to the point.

“Campbell has the body. It is better that he should than that it
should have been brought here at once. I will wire your father, if
you so desire, as you expressed yourself some time ago. Whatever his
directions may be, Campbell will follow them implicitly. I will wire in
your name, unless you wish, otherwise.”

“By all means, if you will be so kind.”

“What shall I say?”

“Simply say that sister died suddenly this evening. Here is the address
in Chicago.”

“Then, if that is all, I will take my leave. You would be better off
to get to your room and compose yourself as soon as possible.”

“You are very good and very thoughtful, sir. I wish I knew how I might
the better express my appreciation.”

“Madame, please do not refer to that subject again,” replied Jeff with
new dignity. “What little I may have done, has been purely in the
line of humanity--what any gentleman would have done for a woman in
distress.”

“I knew you were a gentleman at once, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you give me your name and address?”

Jeff hesitated for a brief instant.

“I am Mr. Taylor. More would be of no use to you. Your father will be
with you tomorrow. If there be anything else I can do for you, if you
will have Campbell called up he will reach me at once. I will be going.”

Jeff rose. As he did so Miss Delano raised herself quickly to her
feet and moving swiftly forward placed both her hands in those of the
detective.

“Believe me, I am so grateful. Somehow you give me strength. You will
not misunderstand me when I say I should like to know you better. Will
you call after my father returns?”

“If I can be of service. Otherwise not. I thank you. Good night, Miss
Delano.”

The detective bowed over her hands with courtly grace, then turning
abruptly, took his departure from the room.

But it was not the last that Jeff Clayton was to see of this affair
into which he had been unwittingly drawn. It was but the beginning of
a series of strange adventures, in which the detective was to come in
contact with a mystery different from anything that he had ever before
been engaged to solve.




CHAPTER III.

“I AM A DEAD WOMAN!”


Some two weeks after the events narrated in the previous chapter, Jeff
Clayton entered his home after a day of investigation on a matter that
had claimed his attention temporarily.

Jeff was met at the door by his Chinese servant Pong. At once the
detective understood from the expression of the Celestial’s face that
he had information to convey.

“Well, who is it?”

“Lil lady.”

“You mean a woman?”

“Lles.”

“Where is she?”

Pong pointed to the detective’s study.

“What is her business?”

“Me not know.”

“Give her name?”

The Chinaman shook his head until his pig tail was swinging from side
to side like the pendulum of a clock.

“Very well, I’ll see her in a few minutes. Has she been waiting long?”

“Lles.”

“Humph! Must have matters of importance to discuss with me. I seem
fated to be occupied by cases in which women are involved. Well, as a
matter of fact, if there were no women there would be little use for
men of my profession.”

Thus musing, Jeff went to his apartments on the second floor, and
changing his business suit for a Tuxedo suit, he took his way to the
study that had been the scene of so many important conferences and
dramatic scenes in times past.

A comely young woman of perhaps thirty-five years of age, was sitting
in the Morris chair with her back half turned toward him. She started
suddenly when the detective’s polite “good evening madame,” broke in
upon her meditations. Already he had formed certain conclusions about
her.

“You are Mr. Clayton, are you not?” she questioned, half rising from
the chair.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

For a moment she did not speak, in the meantime fixing her gaze
steadily upon his face.

“Mr. Clayton, I am a dead woman!”

But the announcement, startling as it was, appeared to produce no
marked effect on the calm-faced detective.

“Yes?”

“Yes. You see before you a dead woman.”

“I should say that quite the contrary was the case.”

“You may think, sir, that my mind is affected--that I am abnormal, but
I assure you that such is not the case. But were I to be lying at your
feet, cold and lifeless I should not be more dead than I am at this
minute.”

“Then, why not call upon a doctor. I should say that you needed medical
advice more than of a detective.”

“No, I come to you because I believe that you are the one man who can
help me. I do not mean that you can save me from the fate that is
before me. It is predestined that I go the way others of my family have
gone.”

“I thought you said you were already dead Miss--by the way, you have
not given me your name?”

“No, that is so. I am Miss Myra Hammond. You may or may not know the
name?”

“I think I have heard it. You lost your father recently did you not?”

“Just a month ago. Previous to that a brother passed away suddenly,
then a sister. There is only my mother and a younger sister besides
myself remaining. I was to have been married two weeks ago, but the
deaths in my family made a postponement necessary, and now that there
have been other developments it has become necessary for me to break my
engagement. I am aware that all this will seem trivial to you.”

“The little things in life count largely in the sum total,” answered
the detective with a slight smile. He had been studying his visitor
keenly since her startling announcement. At first Jeff was inclined to
think that the woman was deranged. He soon discovered, however, that
far from being that, she was a woman of unusual mental attainments and
in full possession of all her faculties. “May I ask why you found it
necessary to break your engagement?”

“I will come to that shortly. As I have just told you there have been
the three deaths in my family.”

“I am somewhat curious to know what you meant when you announced at the
beginning of our conversation that you were already dead?” questioned
the detective. “What am I to infer from that?”

“That sentence has been passed upon me--that the die is cast and that
the blow will fall somehow--somewhere soon. It may be tonight, it may
be a week, two weeks or a month. But fall it surely will.”

“How?”

“In terrible agony.”

The words brought vividly before Jeff Clayton the scene of suffering
that he had witnessed only a few days before that, and he pondered
deeply before asking another question. Why he should couple these two
cases, which could not possibly have anything in common, he did not
know.

“I understand. But what was the cause of death?”

“The doctors did not seem to know--”

“Do I understand from you that you expect to die as they have done?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it is purely imagination. I should say that a change of air
and scene might tone up your nervous system and ward off what you may
bring upon yourself by brooding and worrying over it.”

“It could make no difference. It is a certainty.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go to the bottom of this terrible mystery.”

“Mystery?”

“Yes. And believe me, it is a terrible mystery. In brief try to save my
mother and sister from what has come upon the rest of us. That is why I
have come to you. Do you understand?”

“I begin to,” answered the detective realizing for the first time that
he was confronted by a mystery of graver import than he had at first
imagined. “But I shall have to have more definite data than you have
given me if I am able to form any opinion whatever. In what form does
this death come upon those of your family who have been thus afflicted?”

“At first the doctors thought it was some kind of poisoning--ptomaine,
they called it.”

“Ptomaine?” Jeff sat up rather more suddenly than was his wont.

“Yes, but they finally decided that such was not the case.”

“What was it then?”

“They confessed that they did not know.”

“But they agreed that it was poison of some sort?”

“Yes.”

“No idea, of course, as to the nature of it?”

“No. They thought it might be some East India poison of which they knew
nothing.”

“Will you explain how it acts?”

“It is so powerful that it not only destroys life, but it does not wait
on the passing of the vital spark to begin the destruction of the body.”

“You mean that--that sudden decomposition sets in?”

“Yes.”

“Does death follow quickly?”

“It did in the case of my father. Both my brother and sister were dying
all of one night.”

“How do you think this poison could have been administered?”

“That is the great mystery. Our servants are above reproach or
suspicion. There is no way, and I do not believe that if poison it is,
that it has been administered by any one in our household.”

“May I ask if you know any of the Delano family?”

“Who are they?”

“Mr. James Delano, the wealthy collector of precious stones.”

“I do not remember ever to have heard of them. No, I am sure that we do
not know them.”

“Has any investigation been made by the police?”

“No, we have refrained from publicity, not believing that they could
help us in any way.”

“Who sent you to me?”

“No one. I have heard my father speak of you. He had friends for whom
you had accomplished some wonderful results. He was a great admirer
of you at long range, so to speak,” informed the girl with a wan
smile. “In going over in my mind various plans in my dire extremity, I
suddenly thought of you and I hurried right here.”

“I appreciate your confidence, Miss Hammond. Things may not be as dark
as they have been pictured. I think if you will follow my directions,
after we have gone a little further into this matter, that we shall be
able to ward off this blow which you seem to fear so much.”

“You almost give me hope,” she smiled.

“But not quite?” he twinkled.

“No.”

“Then, we shall have to make it ‘quite.’”

“I wish that might be possible,” answered Miss Hammond with a slow
shake of the head.

“I am something of an expert in an amateurish way on poisons. I have
made it a study for some years. I saw a case two weeks ago that
somewhat resembles yours, or rather those of your family. Only the
action of the poison was not exactly as you have described it. In fact,
it was quite different. The patient did not die in such terrible agony
as is usually the case with those violent East Indian poisons. Is your
mother aware of your suspicions in this matter?”

“No. She thinks the deaths were due to natural causes. You can
understand why I did not wish to alarm her by telling her that which I
had discovered for myself.”

“Surely. You were wise.”

“Yes, the worry added to what she already had, might have proved
serious, as mother is not strong.”

“How old is your sister?”

“Eighteen. I am sure that her turn will come next unless you can
prevent it.”

“I think there should be no difficulty about that,” smiled the
detective. “What makes you think her turn will come after yours?”

“Purely an impression. But it is as strong as that which tells me that
I am to be the next victim.”

“Ah! That brings us to the point on which I wish to ask you some
questions. Miss Hammond, there is something back of all of this that
you have not touched upon save by implication--there is some material
reason why you are so confident that you are a dead woman, to use your
own words. Is not that true?”

Miss Hammond inclined her head and sat thoughtfully looking at her
shapely foot which was tapping the heavy carpet beneath it.

“Yes, there is a reason, an all powerful reason. I had been intending
to tell you of it, though it is in the nature of a personal matter.”

“Yes,” urged the detective as the woman paused.

“It is in the shape of a subtle warning that came to me only a few days
ago.”

“Allow me to interrupt?”

“Certainly.”

“Am I to understand that this same warning was received by the other
members of your family who have passed away, Miss Hammond?”

“All of them received the same warning.”

“And their deaths followed in accordance with it?”

“Not exactly in that way. The warning is in the form of a sign. And in
each instance that sign has been followed by death. It will be the same
with me.”

“You have had the sign?”

“I have.”

“When?”

“As I told you, it came a few days ago. It is with me at this very
moment.”

“Indeed! Why have you not told this to me before?”

“I surely intended to before we had finished.”

“I should like to see it--I must see it--”

“It is your right in view of the fact that I have taken you into my
confidence in this matter. Have you a woman in the house--a maid or--”

“Unfortunately not,” answered the detective, smiling. “Not at the
present moment.”

“Have you a room that I might retire to for a few moments?”

“Why, certainly,” replied the detective, slightly puzzled by the
strange request. “Step right into my private study there. You will find
both doors have bolts on the inside so that you may be absolutely safe
from intrusion--”

“Thank you,” answered Miss Hammond rising.

Jeff led the way to his private room, which he entered first, switching
on the electric lights, bolting the door on the opposite side of the
room, then stepping to the exit, as she entered.

“If there is anything that you wish please mention it.”

“Oh no, there is nothing. I only wish to be alone for a moment. I will
open the door when ready for you. You may think this a very strange
proceeding, Mr. Clayton, but I cannot help it.”

“Not at all, not at all,” reassured the detective.

“And above all please don’t laugh at me. I could stand anything but
that. I feel sure that you do not fully appreciate the gravity of the
situation in which I find myself.”

“Please do not harbor the thought, Miss Hammond. That it is serious to
you is plain, and what is serious to you entitles your belief to my
gravest attention. Please make yourself at home.”

With a smile of appreciation on the face of the woman standing in the
center of his private room, Jeff left her, closing the door behind
him. He heard the bolt shoot into place, then all was silence in the
adjoining room, as Jeff sank into his Morris chair, with chin in
hands, lost in deep thought. His servant Pong came to the door to ask
a question, but observing the absorption of his master, the Celestial
retreated on velvet feet, leaving the question unasked.

“It is strange, strange,” muttered the detective. “Somehow that young
woman’s troubles, fancied or real, seem to have gotten on my nerves.
I have a heavy sense of impending disaster. I feel as if a house were
about to fall on me or something of the sort.”

He passed a hand across his forehead uneasily. It was a sensation that
Jeff Clayton knew from past experience should be heeded. Somehow he
felt that it had to do with the presence of the young woman there in
his private room.

What was it that she wished to show him that required such mysterious
preparation?

“The sign. She said she would show me the sign,” muttered the
detective. “But why all this preparation--this delay. I--Pshaw, I’m
getting foolish. All that creepy talk appears to have gotten on my iron
nerves.”

Jeff laughed softly to himself. He got up from the chair and paced
across the room and back, then returned to his seat, lighting a
cigarette.

“There is no hurrying a woman,” he added humorously. “There is only one
thing for me to do--that is to possess my soul in patience until she
sees fit to come out.”

He sent a whirling ring of smoke far up among the bulbs of the
chandelier, following its course with curious gaze.

“Well, I must say--”

But Jeff did not complete what he was about to say.

A piercing shriek rang through the house--a shriek so full of agony
that it sent the cold chills running up and down his spine for one
brief second.

At first he was at a loss to understand the meaning of the cry or
whence it came.

It was followed by a series of screams. Then, all at once he understood.

“It’s Miss Hammond! Something has happened!”

With a bound he was out of his chair, at the same instant pressing the
electric button on the desk at his side. But there was no need for
doing this. Every person in the house, consisting of Pong together with
Snoopy Havens and Harper Gordon, the latter pair being in the basement
smoking their pipes, came tearing up the stairs instantly the cry of
alarm had reached their ears.

Jeff dashed to the door of his private room. The door was locked of
course, though for the moment he had forgotten that fact.

“What is it?” he shouted.

“Help, help, Mr. Clayton!” cried the agonized voice of the girl.

“Open the door quick. It is locked on your side.”

“Oh God, I cannot,” moaned Myra Hammond.

Without an instant’s hesitation the detective backed off a few paces,
just as Harper Gordon and Snoopy Havens, his two assistants, entered
the room.

At that second the detective projected himself against the door that
separated him from the private room. There followed a grinding and
snapping sound.

Like a flash he backed up and once more hurled himself against the
sturdy door.

With a mighty crash the door suddenly gave way beneath the powerful
impact, and fell rending and cracking into the room where he had left
the young woman but a few moments before.

The sight that met his eyes stirred Jeff Clayton more profoundly than
he had ever been stirred before in all his venturesome career. He was
on the verge of another terrible tragedy, he realized the instant his
eyes had encompassed the scene being enacted before him.




CHAPTER IV.

AN UNEXPECTED TRAGEDY.


“What is it?” he cried as soon as he could untangle himself from the
wreck of the door.

“What the devil is the matter?” demanded Snoopy Havens.

Jeff’s two assistants rather sheepishly dropped the revolvers which
they had drawn on their way up stairs, back into their pockets.

Jeff did not answer the inquiry. His eyes were fixed on the figure of
Myra Hammond, who lay stretched out on the floor, lying half on her
right side, the right arm tucked under her, the left thrown above her
head. She was moaning slightly, her face being drawn and tense.

“What is it, Miss Hammond?” questioned Jeff solicitously, bending over
her. Then for the first time he noted that the young woman had removed
her waist and loosened her corset, though for what purpose he could not
even imagine. “What is it!” he once more demanded when she did not at
first reply. “Can you speak?”

“Yes.”

“Send for the doctor across the street,” commanded Jeff sharply.

Harper Gordon darted to the telephone in the main study.

“It has come, it has come,” murmured the girl. “I knew it would. I told
you it would.”

“You mean?”

“That the blow has fallen.”

“No, no, it cannot be possible. You have worked yourself up to a pitch
of nervous excitement. I will give you something to stimulate your
heart and the doctor will be here in a few moments.”

She shook her head feebly.

“He cannot help me.”

“Not if you persist in deciding that he cannot. If you will fight
it you will have won half of the battle,” continued Jeff Clayton
administering a dose of medicine. “Tell me your symptoms.”

“I feel as if I had no feet. My feet are dead.”

“Snoopy, take off Miss Hammond’s shoes and rub her feet. Be quick.”

This was new work in the detective line for Snoopy Havens, and he
obeyed the command of his chief somewhat reluctantly.

“Do you feel the rubbing, Miss Hammond?” questioned Jeff.

“No, are you rubbing my feet?”

“My assistant is.”

“I told you my feet were dead. Now, now it is my limbs. Death is slowly
creeping up them. Oh, you cannot help me?”

Jeff in the meantime had rung for Pong and directed him to bring hot
water bags instantly. This was done, and the bags, burning hot, placed
at the feet of the suffering young woman.

“Do you feel the water bags at your feet?”

“No. How could I when they are dead?”

“That is purely the result of imagination.”

“You would not think so had you seen the others of my family die. Did I
not tell you that I was a dead woman?”

At that moment the doctor from across the street came hurrying in.

“What’s this, Jeff?” he questioned, glancing at the patient sharply.

“That’s what I have sent for you to find out,” answered the detective.

“What have you been doing for her?” asked the doctor after having taken
the pulse and heart.

“I administered digitalis.”

“Quite right, quite right. You should have been a doctor, as I have
told you many times before. You say she complains of numbness?”

“Yes, she thinks her feet and limbs are dead.”

The doctor, whom Jeff Clayton numbered among his personal friends,
was a man who had gone farther in the real science of medicine, than
most of his associates, now began to realize that the case was one
possessing some serious aspects.

“Send over to my office for the oxygen tank, if you will Jeff,” he
directed.

Snoopy was sent for the articles, quickly returning with them. As soon
as the instrument was set in place, they began administering oxygen to
the girl. It was all to no purpose, however.

“Is the numbness decreasing any?” questioned the doctor.

“How could it? It is increasing.”

“You mean by that?”

“That it is slowly creeping up my body. After a time it will reach my
heart and then I shall be all dead.”

The physician glanced sharply at Jeff Clayton, but made no comment. He
wondered--he could not understand, but Jeff noticed that he bent more
determined efforts toward getting at the woman’s true condition.

“What makes you think you are dying, my girl?”

“Why? Mr. Clayton knows.”

“But, I want to know?”

“Because I’m already partly dead. Don’t try to contradict me. I am
familiar with the symptoms. I have seen them before and I know what it
means.”

“Yes, she has told me all she knows of her condition, doctor,” agreed
Jeff, not wishing to subject Miss Hammond to any more effort than was
necessary. However, it was necessary to ask her some questions as the
case progressed. The oxygen appeared to relieve her for the first few
minutes, then its effect wore off, leaving her, if anything, in a much
more depressed condition than before.

“Can’t you administer an antidote,” asked Jeff.

“I had been thinking of that. The trouble is that I have no idea what
antidote to use. I shall try several different remedies now that we
have her in condition to do so. All we can do will be to watch the
effect. Of course neither she nor you know what it is?”

“No.”

“Now, I’m numb from my feet to my hips, almost,” informed the girl.
“There isn’t much more time left to me.”

“Are you suffering, my dear?” asked Jeff.

“Not so much physically as I was. But mentally, purgatory could be no
worse.”

“Try not to think of it.”

“Come nearer to me, Mr. Clayton, I want to speak to you.”

Jeff dropped down beside the girl, who now lay propped up with pillows,
and placed an ear near her lips.

“You will do as I asked you to?”

“You mean with regard to investigating this case?”

“Yes.”

“You can depend upon me, my dear Miss Hammond. I shall neither rest
night or day until I have accomplished that which you ask of me.”

“Mother will pay you for--”

“There will be no pay. Jeff Clayton does not take pay for helping an
unhappy woman.”

“Thank you, thank you. You are so good. But you must be quick, you
must be quick. They will go as I am going if you do not hurry. Will you
do something else for me?”

“I will, anything you may ask.”

“There is a letter in my bag addressed to my intended. He does not know
why I have broken off the engagement. The letter tells him. I shall be
even more grateful if you will place the letter in his hands yourself,
rather than trusting it to the mail. You know if it were lost in the
mails I could not write another.”

“It shall be as you wish.”

“And you will go and notify mama after it is all over?”

“Yes. But why let your mind dwell on these disturbing thoughts?”

“Because I know,” and Miss Hammond gazed into his eyes significantly,
while Snoopy Havens shuffled uneasily and wiped the perspiration from
his brow.

“Hell, this gets me,” he muttered under his breath. Harper Gordon
nudged his associate, for he had overheard the remark.

“You had better send my body to an undertaker’s until mother can be
notified,” went on the girl with cold calculation that came near
shaking the iron nerves of Jeff Clayton, detective.

“All will be done in accordance with your wishes.”

“I am sorry to have caused you all this trouble, but now that I know
that you will do what I ask, I shall die content. Let me look into your
eyes.”

For more than a minute the woman’s gaze was fastened on the steady eyes
of the detective.

“Yes, you will do all and more than you have promised,” she murmured,
heaving a deep sigh.

“You need have no doubts, Miss Hammond.”

“I have none. I am satisfied. Perhaps it is best, for by this I have
proved to you that I was right. You do not believe now that I was
laboring under a nervous illusion, do you?”

“I do not. I know you were not. But I wish you might be able to tell me
more. Can you think of nothing that will aid me in solving this mystery
that has resulted in such a sad ending for you and yours?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you know any--have you any Orientals among your acquaintances?”

“Not one. I never have known any such.”

“Is the numbness increasing any?” interrupted the doctor.

“Yes.”

“Where is the line now? Tell me when I have reached it as I pinch your
body from the knees up.”

“Yes.”

The doctor’s hand traveled slowly up the limbs, giving violent pinches
as it passed, to all of which the patient seemed utterly oblivious.

At last it rested at the waist.

“You surely must feel the pressure of my hand there?”

“Only faintly. Keep on. I will tell you when I can feel it naturally.”

He did so.

“There.”

“You feel it?”

“Yes, plainly. The numbness has not reached there yet, but it will in a
few minutes.”

“Let us hope it will not,” answered the medical man.

“Now it is in my arms. And my head.”

“How does your head feel?”

“Dizzy. It is swimming. I shall be unconscious soon,” continued the
girl unerringly diagnosing her own case, for it must be remembered that
Myra Hammond had been through this scene in the case of her own family,
three times before. She knew what it meant with as much certainty as
had she been gifted with second sight.

For an hour the two men, detective and physician worked over the
suffering girl, applying every remedy that science and skill could
suggest, but without the least effect. The physician understood by this
time that the case was hopeless--that all his skill was baffled by the
subtle thing that was slowly consuming the fair body of the beautiful
woman.

Snoopy Havens had retired to the main study, unable to stand there and
watch the girl’s sufferings any longer, and in a few minutes he was
joined by Harper Gordon.

“Get on your nerves, eh?” queried Snoopy.

“No, but it seems almost a sacrilege to stand there and watch her
suffer.”

“Sure thing. Guess she’s going to move up into the king row bye and
bye.”

“Yes, the woman is dying, Snoopy.”

“What’s it all about, do you know?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“I reckon there’s something as needs looking into, judging from the
chief’s actions.”

“Yes. There can be no doubt of that.”

The woman opened her eyes once more and glanced up into the sympathetic
ones of the detective who was still kneeling by her side chafing her
head. She smiled faintly.

“You are so good. The sign is--”

“The sign!” exclaimed Jeff Clayton with sudden recollection. In her
suffering he had forgotten entirely about the purpose of her having
entered that room. He chided himself for his forgetfulness, but his
great human sympathy which Jeff Clayton possessed in a marked degree
had well nigh driven all other thoughts from his mind.

“Yes, the sign, the sign! Tell me while there is yet time. Where is it?”

“Here, but you will not understand it--”

“Where, where?”

“Turn me a little and I will show you.”

The detective laid gentle hands on their patient and sought to move her
a little as she had requested.

“You will find it--”

At that instant her words were cut short. The woman uttered another
piercing scream, throwing one hand to her breast.

“What is it? What is it?” demanded the physician sharply.

“Oh, God, my heart! My heart!”

“She’s going, she’s going,” cried the doctor.

The woman’s face underwent a sudden indefinable change. A cloud seemed
to sweep over it like the summer vapor across a field of golden wheat.
It was followed by a shudder that ran from head to foot, then the
entire body stiffened.

For a moment there was tense silence in the room. Snoopy Havens and
Harper Gordon had drawn near following the scream.

Jeff was the first to break the silence.

“Has she gone?”

“The woman is dead,” answered the physician solemnly.




CHAPTER V.

THE LOST SIGN.


An hour later and the scene had changed. Jeff had hurriedly notified
the dead woman’s family, the undertaker and made such other
arrangements as seemed necessary and they were now waiting for the
arrival of the undertaker to remove the body. They had left the silent
figure alone in the room where the great tragedy had come upon her so
suddenly, and Jeff with the physician had settled down in the former’s
study to think over the strange case.

The detective passed the cigars to his friend and lighted one himself.
There was no thought in their minds of disrespect to the dead, but the
tobacco brought solace to both and made their troubled minds clear up a
little. Dr. Edwards leaned back in his chair and surveyed the detective
through half closed eyelids.

“What do you think about it Jeff?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“There is evidently a mystery here, judging from your actions and
certain things that the girl said while I was with her.”

“Perhaps there is. What are you going to assign as the cause of death?”

“General congestion.”

Jeff nodded.

“That’s wise. Caused by what?”

“Poison.”

“What kind?”

“I am unable to say. I should judge that it was some subtle oriental
drug or poison administered into the arteries. I have never seen a case
like it and never expect to again. The strangest part of it all is that
decomposition had set in before the woman was wholly dead. Her lower
extremities were dead an hour before the spark of life left her body.
It is most peculiar. You know a great deal more about these poisons
than do I, Jeff. What do you think about it?”

“I agree with you in the general statement that the woman is the victim
of some virulent Eastern drug.”

“Anything like it ever come under your observation?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! When?”

“Some two weeks ago.” The detective thereupon narrated the
circumstances surrounding the death of Miss Delano which occurred in
the Opera House. He did not, however, mention the finding of the red
dragon pricked on Miss Delano’s arm, perhaps because it did not occur
to him at the moment, or that he thought best not to speak of it.

“Strange, strange,” murmured the physician.

“Can you tell me how Miss Hammond happened to be attacked here in my
rooms? She appeared to be in perfect health right up to the time I left
her in the private study there. That is the most puzzling part of the
case.”

“Perhaps she carried some drug with her--”

“No, she did not. I have made search to satisfy myself on that point.”

“Then, it must have been working in her system for some hours.”

“Perhaps days.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to investigate the case?” asked the physician.

“I most assuredly shall. I promised Miss Hammond that I would do so,
and furthermore, even had I not done so I feel it my duty to make an
effort to put a stop to these crimes. I have seen enough to convince
me that there is a deep laid plot to commit a series of wholesale
murders. Somehow, I cannot get it out of my mind that there is a close
connection between the two deaths that I have witnessed. I have not
felt called upon to look into the first one until this evening. Now I
am going to do so.”

“When do you begin?”

“This very night. I am at work on the case now.”

“You are?” questioned Dr. Edwards in amazement.

“Yes, and I have been ever since the woman was stricken in that room
there.”

“You are a queer man, Jeff.”

“So I have been told before,” smiled the detective.

“Will you tell me what your conclusions are up to the present time?”

“I am afraid that would not be possible. They are vague conclusions
thus far, without shape or form. They will develop after I have
pondered over the subject for a time.”

“What was it that I heard the woman say about a sign? Do you know what
she meant?”

Jeff did not reply at once. Instead, he sat with chin in hands
reflectively.

“I’m glad you spoke of that, Edwards. It might have slipped my mind and
I want to take up that question before the Coroner or undertaker get
here. If you will come with me into the other room we will see if we
can answer that question,” said the detective rising.

Dr. Edwards was quick to follow suit and together the two men entered
the chamber of death where Jeff switched on the electrics, flooding
the room with light. The body of Miss Hammond lay stretched out on a
lounge, covered partially by a blanket.

For a moment the physician stooped over her peering inquiringly into
the pale dead face.

“I should like to know what did it,” he murmured.

“So should I,” answered Jeff promptly. “And that is not all, I am going
to know before I let go of this strange case.”

“How about the sign?” The doctor was plainly deeply curious.

“I hope to find out. Let me see,” mused the detective. “The woman
retired to this room to get the sign and to do so she removed part of
her clothing.”

“What does that mean?”

“Either that she had it secreted somewhere about her person or else it
was a part of her person. From past experience, I think we shall find
that the latter is the true solution. She had removed her waist and I
think we shall discover what we are looking for on the left arm. Have
you ever seen a red dragon, Edwards?”

“In pictures. Why?”

“Because I’m thinking you will see one in a minute.”

The doctor did not understand what the detective was getting at, but he
knew there was purpose in the remark. In the meantime the detective was
turning the body so as to release the left arm. This he picked up after
laying the body on its right side, the physician watched him curiously
all the time.

The undershirt was gently stripped up the arm, and as he did so, Jeff
Clayton uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

“What is it?” breathed the doctor, realizing at once that the detective
had made some sort of a discovery.

“The sign, Edwards.”

“Where?”

Jeff pointed to the arm, which he was holding up by the woman’s hand.

Dr. Edwards leaned over, peering at the marble-white arm, whereupon he
too uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“A red dragon,” he cried. “It has been pricked into the flesh with a
needle.”

“Yes.”

“And--and that is the sign you referred to?”

“It is.”

“But what does it mean?”

“That is more than I can tell you. It seems to mean death in this case.”

“I don’t understand,” replied the physician with a puzzled expression
on his face.

“That is not surprising. Neither do I. I only know that the woman who
died so suddenly in the Opera House bore a similar mark, and that the
moment her sister saw it, she promptly fainted away.”

“Did you ask her why?”

“I did, but she refused to be questioned on that point.”

“It should be easy now that you have this other evidence.”

“I shall see her in the morning,” answered the detective with a
tightening of the lips. “There is one thing that points a clue that
must be heeded.”

“And that?”

“The red dragon.”

“Yes, but a dragon is not an East Indian emblem,” objected Dr. Edwards.

“I have known it to be. But this somehow, strikes me as being of
another origin.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Either Japanese or Chinese. I do not know which.”

“I guess you are right at that. How are you going to find out?”

“I can’t answer that question because I do not know, myself. I have an
idea, though.”

“Yes?”

“Harper!”

“Right, Chief.”

“Send Pong up here, please.”

A moment later the stolid face of Jeff Clayton’s Chinese servant
appeared, framed in the doorway.

“Pong, you know Dr. Edwards, don’t you?”

“Lles,” grinned the Chinaman.

“The Doctor has been attending the Lil lady, Pong.”

“Lles.”

“But the Lil lady is dead, Pong.”

The Chinaman’s face suddenly sobered, and he acted for a moment as if
he would turn and flee from the chamber of death.

“The doctor wants you to do something for him, Pong.”

“Lles,” answered the Celestial in a voice that was somewhat faint.

At that moment Jeff Clayton was standing between the dead arm which
he held, and the Chinaman, while Dr. Edwards looked on curiously, not
understanding what it was that his friend was trying to accomplish.

“Come here, Pong, I want to ask you something myself, first, then the
doctor can put his questions. Remember, I want you to be truthful. You
may be able to help us a great deal if you will.”

The Celestial moved slowly into the room, glancing now and then askance
at the silent figure on the couch, the outline of which he could but
faintly make out under the blanket that covered the lower extremities.

“Lean over here, I want to show you something,” said Jeff, when Pong
had approached him. At the same time the detective laid firm hold
of the servant’s arm and pulled him around facing Miss Hammond’s
face. As he did so he held up the arm so that the full light of the
electric bulbs shone down upon it, bringing up the red dragon with a
distinctness that made it look as if it had been painted in blood.

“Look, Pong!”

Jeff was standing in a slightly stooping position, bending his now
fairly burning eyes upon the face of his servant.

But the Oriental’s eyes were not burning. They were bulging with fear
as he gazed fascinated at the tiny red dragon. Jeff could feel the
servant’s body trembling from head to foot.

All at once Pong uttered a yell of terror. He broke from the
detective’s clutches and leaped chattering from the room, never
stopping until he had reached the basement of the house, where they
could hear him moaning and chattering in terrified tones.

“Nail him, Harper. Don’t let him get away.”

Harper Gordon dashed down stairs before the words were fairly out of
Jeff Clayton’s mouth where he sought to calm the frightened Chinaman
and get him to understand that there was nothing to fear. But his
efforts were futile.

“Good Heavens, what does it mean, Jeff!” gasped the Doctor as soon as
he recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to speak.

“It means,” announced Jeff in slow, even tones, “That Pong has read the
riddle of the red dragon.”




CHAPTER VI.

THE DRAGON STINGS AGAIN.


Pong’s inscrutable Oriental face gave no sign under the grilling that
Jeff Clayton had been subjecting him to during the long hours of the
night following the discovery of the red dragon on the arm of the dead
Myra Hammond.

Jeff had threatened, had resorted to every art, to every subterfuge
known to workers of the third degree, but all to no purpose.

“Pong,” said the detective, finally, “you have been a faithful servant,
and further than that you have been a good friend. I have always
thought you were at any rate, and you know I have been your friend. You
must not forget that you would have been a dead Chinaman long ago had I
not done something to ward off the blow--to prevent it. Is that not so?”

“Lles.” The Celestial’s eyes took on an expressive gleam, and Jeff knew
that he had touched and pierced the armor of reserve that covered this
member of a strange, inscrutable race.

“Is it a sign of the Suey Sing, Pong?”

“Me not know.”

“Is the red dragon the sign of the Ong Leongs?” Jeff was watching the
man narrowly as he put his questions.

Pong shook his head.

“Or the Five Brothers?”

“Not know.”

“How about the Sin Lungs?”

The Chinaman shook his head vigorously.

“Evidently it is not the latter,” mused the detective.

“Do you know what Tong it _is_ the sign of?”

“Not know.”

“Very well, if you insist, but I happen to know that you do. Don’t you
know--haven’t you learned by this time that you cannot deceive me, that
I can read your mind?”

“Lles.”

“Then you know that I know some things that are or have been in it?”

“Lles.”

“I’ll ask you one more question. Do you know what the red dragon on the
arm of that girl means?”

Pong hesitated, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, squirmed ever so
little in the seat, then nodded his head ever so slightly.

“Lles,” he answered faintly.

“Ah! I thought so. What does it mean?”

“Hi--him die.”

“Yes, that’s very evident. You knew what the red dragon meant the
moment you saw it on the young woman’s arm, didn’t you?”

“Lles.”

“You have seen it in your own country?”

“Lles.”

“I wonder if it is any use to ask you how they kill the people who have
the misfortune to have a red dragon appear on their arms?”

Pong shook his head as if he did not understand, but his questioner
knew that he did. Pong understood a great deal more than people gave
him credit for, but he was dealing with a dangerous subject just
now--that is, dangerous to himself, and Jeff Clayton knew that if his
servant was in possession of any further facts it would be almost
useless to question him upon them. He understood that Pong might expect
a terrible death, the lure of the red dragon would eventually draw him
on to death.

“You don’t know how it is done?”

“Him poison.”

“Yes, that is very evident. But how?”

“Not know. Old poison. Him come from the gods.”

“I should rather think it came from the devils. That will be all for
now, but I will say to you now, that I shall probably want to use you
in this case before I have finished with it. Are you willing to assist
me in saving the lives of several innocent people?”

“Lles.”

“I thought you would be. I know it is useless to ask you to go among
your own people to try to get information. It would be the red death
for yours, but you may be able to assist me in other ways. That’s all,
Pong.”

Some time before this the body of the young woman had been taken away,
Jeff having done all that lay in his power for the time being. His real
work would begin on the morrow, and he knew full well, would lead him
into strange paths--paths seldom trodden by the men of his race. Yet,
how far afield it would lead him, he could not even dream.

Soon after finishing his conversation with the Chinese servant, Jeff
betook himself to bed, for but few hours now remained until daylight.
His two assistants had retired long since. Jeff, with his usual
practice, threw off all thought of the perplexing mystery that had
beset him and went to sleep almost as soon as his head touched the
pillow.

The next morning he was somewhat later than usual in rising, in fact
the entire household was sleeping soundly when Pong called them at nine
o’clock.

All hands were down in the dining-room soon afterwards.

“Sleep well, Snoopy?” questioned Jeff.

“Nearly slept my danged head off,” was the comprehensive reply.

“Hello, here’s the mail,” as Pong, his face as inscrutable as usual
laid several letters before the detective. “And I’ll bet this is from
my old friend the Chief from Philadelphia. I wonder what’s gone wrong
over in Sleepy Town.”

“Maybe they’ve woke up,” suggested Snoopy Havens.

“Hardly. Listen, boys, here’s business for us.”

“My Dear Jeff,” began the letter from the Philadelphia Chief, and
which Jeff read out loud. “‘I promised you when last I saw you that
the next time we got in a tangle I would call on you to help us out.
That condition exists at the present moment. I don’t know just how to
explain the case to impress upon you the gravity of it. The fact is
we have had a series of mysterious deaths here of late that lead me
to believe there is method in them--in short, that they are murders.
Nothing of this has appeared on the surface, nor have the papers gotten
hold of them. Some sort of an organized band has been at work and is
at work still, so far as I know. I have had half a dozen of our best
men investigating the crimes, if such they be. But I might as well
have had a bunch of kindergarten students on the cases, for all my men
found out. I wish you would run over here at your earliest convenience,
and at least talk the cases over with me. You may be able to give me
some good advice, and Heaven knows I need all I can get of that at
the present time. In case you find yourself unable to spare the time
immediately, why not send one of your assistants over to get all the
facts and he in turn can communicate them to you, though I should much
prefer to see Jeff Clayton himself in person. I will defer all other
facts in relation to this matter until I see you.’”

“Well, Harper, I guess it’s up to you to take a run over to
Philadelphia this morning and see what the Chief wants. If it is
anything that demands my immediate attention you can wire or phone to
me, though I hardly think I shall be able to get away from here just
yet.”

“You have cut out a nice job for me,” objected Harper. “I was in hopes
I should be able to get in on the red dragon business.”

“You’ll have your share of that, my boy, and if I am any judge you will
wish yourself in Philadelphia or even Timbuctoo before we have done
with it. There be going to be lively times, boys,” smiled Jeff.

“What do you think is in the wind in the Quaker City?” questioned
Harper Gordon.

“I couldn’t say. I don’t agree that there is any organized band
working there, but there may be for all of that. Don’t get your mind
prejudiced before you begin. Go at each task in the beginning, with an
open mind, then you will be better able to receive impressions, which
are the detective’s most valuable asset.”

“I’ll take your advice. My mind is a vacuum from this moment.”

“That’s the way it always is,” interjected Snoopy Havens maliciously.

“Well, even an empty mind is sometimes better than no mind at all,”
retorted Harper. “There’s hope for the former, but none for the latter.”

“Humph,” grunted Snoopy, then fell silent.

“You had better be going as soon after breakfast as possible. Run in to
Green’s during the afternoon as I may want to reach you and I should
rather not send a message to headquarters. Anything in the papers,
Snoopy?”

“About the usual grist of dope. Nothing that will interest you, I
guess. I have marked some things that may. I don’t know.”

“I’ll look them over when I get time. There is some one at the front
door Pong.”

The servant responded to the ring, returning in a few minutes with the
information that a gentleman was waiting to see Mr. Clayton in the
study.

“Give his name?”

“No.”

“Think he is all right?”

“Lles. Nice mlan.”

“Well, there’s nothing more to be said then. When Pong decides that one
is a ‘nice mlan,’ there’s no going behind the returns,” laughed the
detective.

“What do you want me to do today, Chief?” questioned Snoopy.

“I haven’t decided yet. Wait until I see our caller upstairs. If there
is nothing there that needs attention I shall be able to use you upon
the red dragon mystery.”

Jeff ate his breakfast rather more hurriedly than usual, then,
gathering up his letters, took his way to the study on the floor above.

He found waiting him there a young man of perhaps thirty-two years of
age. The young man was fashionably attired, and his general appearance
made a favorable impression on the detective at the first glance.

“How do you do,” greeted Jeff. “I see you have recently completed an
ocean voyage.”

“How do you know that?” demanded the caller considerably taken back.

“Not a difficult deduction,” laughed the detective. “You have the ocean
color in your face. It could not be mistaken.”

“I--have no need to ask if you are Mr. Clayton, as I was about to do,”
smiled the caller. “It is evident that you are he.”

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Perhaps a great deal--perhaps nothing. I will confess, I do not know.
I am sorely troubled, Mr. Clayton.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Yes, certainly. My name is Walter Delano--”

“Delano?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Related to James Delano?”

“I am his son. Did you know him?”

“No. But you say ‘did.’ What do you mean by that?”

“That my father James Delano died four days ago--died as others of my
family have done, under most distressing conditions.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes.”

Jeff never changed his expression, but he regarded his caller with a
long, thoughtful gaze that might mean much or little. The detective
knew almost as well what was in the mind of his caller--what the latter
was about to say to him as if the words already had been spoken. But he
gave no sign, spoke no word that would indicate that he understood.

“You mean that he died as your sister did before him?”

The young man gave a quick start.

“Yes. You know--you know?”

“I know nothing. Tell me about it.”

For the moment Walter Delano was too much perplexed to speak, then he
began the recital that held the detective’s attention to the end.




CHAPTER VII.

MYSTERY FOLLOWS MYSTERY.


“What I have to say may seem incredible to you, Mr. Clayton, but I
assure you that I shall give you nothing but the plain unvarnished
facts.”

“I understand that. Have no fear that I shall not give all you tell me,
its due weight.”

“Thank you. I felt sure you would. I know you well by reputation. What
I have to say concerns the death of my father, my sister and one other
member of my family under most mysterious circumstances.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there is a mystery despite what the physicians say.”

“What do they say?”

“That the death in each case was due to natural causes entirely.”

“You differ with them?”

“I most decidedly do. Mr. Clayton I have traveled much in my
lifetime--have spent much time among Oriental peoples and know
something of their ways and tricks. Somehow I cannot help but connect
these deaths with the ways of the mysterious East.”

Jeff nodded thoughtfully, but more to himself than to his caller. But
he observed the nod and wondered at it.

“Have you ever had anything of the sort in your experience?”

“Yes, I might say that I have.”

“Then you will understand that I am not romancing.”

“I am quite sure that you are not. By the way, may I ask if you know
the Hammonds?”

“Which Hammonds do you refer to?”

“The Fifth Avenue Hammonds. I believe they live in your neighborhood.”

“I wasn’t aware that I had told you where I live, Mr. Clayton,” replied
the young man in real surprise.

“Well, perhaps not,” laughed Jeff. “Perhaps I was thinking of some one
else.”

“No, I do not know the family you speak of--that is, I seem unable to
recall them. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, for no particular reason,” answered Jeff. “Please go on with your
story.”

“Very recently while I was in Europe and my father in Chicago, my
eldest sister was stricken while on her way home from the opera. She
died in the hands of strangers, but who, it seems were very kind to
her. I have been trying ever since my return to find one of the men who
aided and did for my other sister Margaret as one of her own family
would have done.”

“Do you know this man’s name?”

“Yes, my sister says he gave the name of Taylor, and told her to call
on a certain undertaker’s shop for further address in case he could be
of service to her.”

“Did she?”

“I did in her place. But I have been unable to get any track of the
gentleman. But I am digressing. My sister died under most distressing
circumstances, as others of our family have done and as we all shall
go, I fear. My father now has gone the same way.”

“Where was your father stricken?”

“At home.”

“Had he any reason to believe that such a fate awaited him?”

“He knew it did. He sought medical aid even before the attack came on,
but all to no purpose.”

“Will you describe his symptoms?”

Jeff knew what these had been in advance, but he preferred to let
Walter Delano repeat them in hopes of gaining some clue to the mystery.

“Numbness, paralysis and quick decomposition in brief, were the most
marked of the symptoms.”

“And you think that perhaps it was the work of some subtle poison?”

“I believe it--I am almost positive of it.”

“But, how could he have gotten this virile poison into his system
without knowing it. Surely no one in your household could have been
guilty of such an act?”

“No. And that is one of the factors of the mystery that I want you to
unfold.”

The detective was thoughtful for several minutes during which his
caller watched him with anxious eyes.

“Did your father not tell you before he died of any incident that might
lead us to the real trail?” asked Jeff.

“Well, not definitely. I questioned him on this same point. He did
tell me of one incident that has caused me to wonder.”

“Ah! what was that?”

“The second evening after the death of my sister, my father was
coming uptown in his coupé when the carriage got into a blockade near
Thirty-fourth street.”

“What time in the evening was this?” questioned Jeff Clayton.

“About nine o’clock, I believe.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“My father says he remembers about this time having fallen into a brief
doze. When he awakened the carriage was moving again.”

“Were the windows of the coupé open?”

“One of them.”

“Which one?”

“Let me see. Yes, I think it was the left. Ah! I begin to catch the
drift of your questioning, Mr. Clayton. But what do you know about this
case?” demanded the young man in sudden wonder.

“My dear fellow, I am trying to find out all I can about it. You say it
was the left hand window that was down?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what next?”

“Father says soon after that he sensed an itching on his left arm. He
rubbed that member vigorously, then forgot all about it until several
days later.”

“Yes?”

“Well, while taking a very hot bath, he all at once discovered what had
caused the itching in the left arm. Then--then he knew that he was
marked for death.”

“How did he know that?”

“Because the sign that had preceded the deaths of others of our family
had most mysteriously appeared, on the left arm.”

“The sign?” questioned Jeff.

“Yes.”

“What sign?”

“You will scarcely credit it, but I assure you I am telling you nothing
but facts.”

“Go on. Perhaps I will credit it more than you think. What was the
sign?”

“An emblem or whatever you might call it had been tattooed on the left
arm just above the wrist.”

“And that emblem was the red dragon,” announced Jeff Clayton in a slow,
impressive voice.

Walter Delano sprang from his chair.

“My God, man, who and what are you?”

“I am Jeff Clayton, detective.”

“No, you are a wizard.”

“I wish I were.”

“You are, else how could you know this thing that not even the Coroner
who made the examination, discovered, or if he did, never gave a second
thought to? How could you, I say?”

“Sit down, Mr. Delano, there is nothing so wonderful about it as you
might think. I assure you I am not in league with the devil, nor am I
the wonder you think me. I am just a plain American detective, perhaps
gifted with powers of observation beyond that of the ordinary man, but
none the less human for all of that. Then I am to understand that you
believe your father got the brand of the red dragon that night while
riding home in his carriage?”

“That is not my conclusion, sir. It is yours. You drew the facts from
me. I do not understand why I should not have discovered the connection
before this. That must have been the time that the sign of the red
dragon was imprinted upon his arm--yes, you have. But how? How, Mr.
Clayton?”

“That question doesn’t trouble me greatly.”

“What?”

“It is the least important of all. The how is a matter that can
be explained in one of a dozen or more ways. There is no great
mystery about the act in this instance and I consider it of no great
importance.”

“Then if that is not important what is?”

“Why? That is where the real secret lays. Why, Mr. Delano? The motive
is the thing. When we have discovered the motive we shall be well along
toward a solution of this mystery.”

“You are right, sir. I see it now. You think faster and go further than
I can. Will you take the case, Mr. Clayton? Will you do what you can to
run down the guilty ones and save the rest of us from a similar fate,
which I am sure awaits us? I am not a coward but the contemplation of
this mysterious and terrible fate ahead of us all, appalls me. I am
free to confess that.”

“I understand. I already am at work on the case, Mr. Delano. I have
been for at least twenty-four hours.”

“You don’t mean it?”

Jeff nodded.

“I presume I should be surprised, but I can’t be after the marvelous
way in which you have forestalled me on all points, exhibiting an even
greater knowledge of them than I myself possessed. Will you tell me
what you have learned, if anything?”

“Much and yet little,” answered the detective enigmatically. “While
I have not been from the house I have progressed by a process of
deduction to a point where I hope soon to be able to give you definite
information on the questions that mean so much to you.”

“Wonderful.”

“Nothing of the sort. You perhaps may help me to clear up some points
which at the present moment I am in the dark about. Do you know of any
reason why any person, let us say for the sake of argument, why any
Chinese should have a strong enough motive to put the members of your
family to death?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Have any of your family ever wronged or in any way been connected with
the Chinese in a business or other capacity? Think well now, for much
depends upon this one point.”

“No, I think not--”

“Think again,” commanded Jeff sharply.

“Not the Chinese. I believe an uncle of mine was once Consul at Tokio,
Japan, but none of my family so far as I know ever had any dealings
with the Chinese.”

“In Japan, eh? That is worth considering. What was his name?”

“Roger Delano.”

“How long ago was he consul at Tokio?”

“About four years ago, I believe. I can look it up if you wish. I was
at school--at law school at that time.”

“Not necessary. Where is your uncle now?”

“He is dead.”

“Indeed?” Jeff eyed his caller questioningly.

“I don’t know,” said the young man as if in answer to a question from
the detective.

“Another sudden death?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. We are getting at the facts gradually. Attended by the
same strange features?”

“That I have been unable to decide. Uncle died in the country where he
was attended by a country practitioner, so that I have not been able to
fix the cause definitely. It is my belief that he died from the same
cause that my father and sister did.”

“He was the first to fall under the bane of these mysterious poisoners
so far as your information goes?”

“The first.”

“Did he leave a family?”

“No. He was a bachelor.”

“You may think all these questions trivial, but there is a reason for
my asking them,” explained the detective.

“I know it. I have learned more since I entered this room--gained
more real facts and information from your questions than I would have
believed possible.”

“I presume your uncle had many curios that he brought back from the
East?”

“Yes.”

“Where are they?”

“Some of them we have at our own home.”

“What are they?” There was a gleam in the eyes of the detective as he
drew out the answer.

“Weapons of various kinds, idols and all that sort of thing.”

“Good. Will you do me the favor to have secretly conveyed to me here
each and every one of those things that your uncle possessed. I have a
reason for wishing to have them here. I may be able to get a lead from
them.”

“Certainly. I shall attend to it this morning. You shall have them in
an hour after I leave this house.”

“Thank you. But you say you have some of them. I take it there were
other things. What became of them?”

“I do not know. I presume uncle gave them to his various friends. I
believe I have heard father say something of the sort.”

“You don’t know to whom?”

“No.”

“I wish you did.”

“Is it so important?”

“The information might lead to a solution of this whole mystery. Mind
you, I do not say that it would. I am only saying that it might. My
impression in that direction is very strong,” mused the detective in
a half audible tone, as he sat with eyelids nearly closed, thinking,
delving deep into that wonderful mind of his.

“Then, I shall do everything in my power to obtain this information for
you, Mr. Clayton.”

“That will be of considerable help to me. At the same time I will make
some inquiries along the same line. Find out especially, if you can,
whether your uncle was friendly with or even knew the Hammond family. I
presume you have succeeded to the charge of your father’s business, if
I may ask?”

“Yes.”

“Have you made an inventory of his possessions yet?”

“No, only looked them over casually.”

“When you do, and I should advise doing so at once, I would suggest
that you have an eye for any Japanese curios, or anything of that sort.
Should you perchance, discover any such please bring them here to me.
They will be perfectly safe in my hands.”

“I know that and I shall do as you wish. It will give me great pleasure
to feel that I am to be of some assistance to you, Mr. Clayton. My
whole heart is in this work and I am determined that the murderer of
half my family shall be brought to justice.”

“And he shall be, Mr. Delano. I promise you that, even if the task
takes me around the world, as it may ere I have run the devil or devils
to earth. It is a long chase that has no ending, you know.”

“I appreciate that,” exclaimed the young man impulsively springing up
and grasping both the detective’s hands which he pressed warmly. “Will
you tell me why you are so particular for information about the Hammond
family, Mr. Clayton? That is, if you can do so without interfering with
your work. I don’t want to pry into other people’s affairs, but you
have led me to believe that somehow the Hammonds may be connected with
our case.”

Jeff pondered over the question briefly.

“I see no objection to telling you. But you will of course confide to
no human being what I have discussed with you or what I am about to
tell you. It might defeat all our plans.”

“It goes without saying that I shall not confide in anyone.”

“Then I will tell you that I believe the two families are connected in
some way unknown as yet, in these crimes. I am more convinced since my
talk with you, of the truth of this surmise, than I was before seeing
you. I might say I am positive.”

“Is it possible? How?”

“Several members of that family have died in exactly the same way that
those of yours did,” replied Jeff in a calm, even tone.

Walter Delano gasped.

“Is--it--possible?”

“It is. Come here.” Jeff led his guest to the door of the private study
and pointed to the couch on the opposite side of the room.

Walter Delano gazed at it wonderingly, with not the remotest idea what
the detective was trying to convey to him.

“On that couch--and I say this without any desire for theatric effects
Miss Myra Hammond died last night.”

“You--you don’t mean it?”

“Yes.”

“But, I don’t understand?”

“You will when I tell you that she died exactly as the members of your
family have died--died with the same slow creeping death that left half
of the body dead and decaying while the other half still lived waiting
for the supreme moment.”

The young man’s face was pale with suppressed emotion. No words could
voice the confusion of thoughts that were surging through his brain.

“She died, my friend, with the red dragon emblazoned on her arm,”
continued Jeff Clayton in a quiet impressive voice.

“Good God, is it possible?”

“Yes.”

“Then--then that is how you knew of the deadly red dragon? I see it all
now,” exclaimed the young man nodding his head emphatically.

“No, that is not how I knew. I knew of it before. I have learned since
that it is the badge of death, that he who wears the red dragon upon
his arm, dies the death that has been fiendishly planned for him. But
I first saw the red dragon as the emblem of death two weeks ago, Mr.
Delano.”

“Two weeks ago?”

“Yes. It was one night in the office of the manager of the Metropolitan
Opera House--”

“What!”

The detective nodded.

“It was after the theaters were discharging their patrons shortly after
a woman had leaped from a cab crying for assistance.”

If Walter Delano had been pale before he was ghastly now.

“My sister,” he breathed scarcely above a whisper.

“Yes. Your sister died in my arms. I am the Mr. Taylor that your other
sister, Margaret, referred to. And now you will understand why I have
been at work on your case, why I happened to know so much about it.
Two women--two beautiful accomplished women have died in my arms with
the red badge of death glowing on their white arms,” concluded the
detective impressively.

Walter Delano sank back into the Morris chair, and covering his face
with his hands sought to shut out the picture that had been so vividly
drawn by Jeff Clayton.

“I owe you a deeper debt than I knew,” murmured the young man.

“No, the obligation is not mine. It goes beyond that. But together, you
and I will go to the bottom of this mystery, my friend. Watch yourself
that you do not fall a victim to the subtle methods of the East.
Especially guard yourself and the remaining members of your family
while they sleep, for in some of these cases the death sign has been
placed while the victim slept peacefully.”

“I will. You need have no fears. You have aroused me to my duty. I had
not realized wherein I might help to ward off the danger. I see now and
you will not find me wanting. You shall have the curios in an hour as
I promised. You will summon me when I can assist you further, will you
not?”

“Yes.”

“My sister will be happy at the tidings that I am able to bring her,
and she will be surprised when I tell her you are the one who came to
her assistance in her hour of trouble. It was she who bade me come to
you today. Is it not strange?”

“Fate works in many curious ways,” answered the detective with a
curious smile, playing about the corners of his mouth as he showed his
young guest from the room, and closing the outer door shut himself in
his study where he remained undisturbed for hours. Lunch time came and
passed, but no summons came. The soft-footed Oriental approached the
door time and time again, then slipped away on velvet feet, leaving his
master to his meditations.

Could one have looked into that quiet study they might have believed
that the detective was either sleeping or in a trance. He sat at his
desk, pale of face, eyes staring straight ahead of him, yet seeing
nothing of what lay before them. They were looking on into the far
distance, through the walls that proved no barrier.

A bell tinkled far off in some remote part of the house. Slowly the
eyes of the strange man closed softly. A shudder ran through his frame,
then he opened his eyes. They rested first on the French clock on the
mantel.

“Three o’clock,” he exclaimed. “I guess I must have been on a long
journey this time. But I have seen many and strange sights.”




CHAPTER VIII.

ON THE DRAGON’S TRAIL.


“Teleglam,” announced Pong, thrusting his head in the door which
the detective had thrown open after coming out of his trance-like
meditation.

Jeff motioned for the servant to lay it on the table. A few minutes
later he tore off the end of the envelope.

“Think you had better come over here. Same sort of case as those you
are on now. If not, wire me directions. Harper.”

Jeff tore up the message and dropped the pieces in the basket by his
desk.

“This is getting to be disturbing.”

He rang the bell for Snoopy Havens. The assistant appeared almost at
once.

“Snoopy, Mr. Delano is going to send over some stuff that may prove of
some use to us in this case. For certain reasons I do not wish Pong to
see any of it, or know the contents of the package, if it comes in the
form of a package. I wish you would remain here to receive it. When the
stuff arrives lock it up in one of the cells down stairs.”

“Right.”

“And after that I want you to go over to the Hammonds and see if you
can trace back any relationship or friendship with any member of the
Delano family.”

“Good. Where are you going?”

“To Philadelphia and perhaps to Washington before I return. I have
some matters at the State Department in connection with this case that
I think I had better look up while I am over that way. If anything
develops send me word to Greene’s.”

“Harper coming back tonight?”

“I can’t say just now. Probably.”

An hour later Jeff Clayton was on board a train bound for the Quaker
City. Arriving there he drove directly to police headquarters where
he found the Chief awaiting his arrival. Harper Gordon had gone to
the hotel which Jeff had designated, there to await the arrival of his
Chief, or word from him as to what was desired of him.

After the greeting between the Chief and the detective, Jeff came
straight to the business which had brought him there.

“Now what can I do for you, Chief?” he smiled.

“I hope a whole lot. You can if you will. I explained the case to your
assistant, Mr. Gordon, and he said at once that it was a matter that he
desired you to take up personally, for certain reasons, which he did
not confide to me.”

“Tell me about it, Chief.”

“We have had a series of mysterious deaths in Philadelphia, which to my
mind require investigation.”

“Then, why not investigate them?” smiled Jeff quizzically.

“We have--that is, we have tried to, but without result.”

“What are the particulars of these deaths?”

“As I said before, mysterious. Sudden and inexplicable. There is one
peculiar fact and that is that these cases bear all the symptoms of
poisoning, but physicians have been unable to find any trace of poison.
Neither have the chemists who have made investigations for us.”

“You say deaths--how many deaths of this sort have you had?”

“Five, I think. There may be some that have not been reported to us.”

“How did they happen to be reported to you?”

“By the physicians in most cases. At my suggestion their certificates
assigned the deaths to natural causes.”

“A wise plan.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

“Are they people of consequence?”

“In every instance.”

“Men or women?”

“Both.”

“Any of them have any Oriental connection, social or otherwise?”

“Not that I know of. We have not gone into that phase of the matter.
Why do you ask?”

“In the general course of questioning. What about the other peculiar
features that have attended these deaths?”

“What features do you refer to?”

“The red dragon,” smiled the detective.

The Chief laughed outright.

“Why should I waste my time in telling you all these things when you
are as familiar with them as I myself am?”

“Perhaps you may be able to enlighten me on points that I am not
familiar with.”

“How do you happen to know of these cases?”

“Because we have had some in New York exactly similar. Two of the
victims have died in my arms and I already am at work on the case.
It is evidently the same man or the same set of men that have been
operating here.”

“That is most remarkable.”

“It is in a way.”

“And you will help us in these cases here, won’t you?”

“Yes, either directly or indirectly. By working up my own cases I shall
be investigating yours, don’t you see?”

“That’s so.”

“I wish you would give me a list of the people who have died here,
together with their addresses, and who and what they are.”

“I already have prepared such a memorandum,” announced the Chief,
handing over a slip of paper which the detective folded and placed in
his wallet.

“What is your theory of the cases, Chief?”

“It seems to me that there is an organized band at work. I can figure
it out in no other way.”

“For what reason?”

“You mean--”

“The motive, of course?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. What do you think?”

“I am convinced that it is the work of some Orientals. The motive is
what I am getting at at the present time, or trying to rather. Did you
place the dates of the crimes here on the piece of paper you gave me?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any organized societies of Chinamen or Japanese in your city?”

“Not that I know of. We have perhaps more Japanese than Chinamen here,
but there is nothing like a Tong, so far as I know, if that is what you
mean.”

“I think you are mistaken, Chief,” smiled Jeff.

“Well, if Jeff Clayton says that’s so, I’ll believe him in the face of
the evidence of my own eyes to the contrary,” replied the Chief with
emphasis.

Jeff laughed softly.

“Perhaps I am not deserving of all the good things you think of me. I
am only human you know, but I am going to prove a few things to you
before I have finally run down this case.”

“Then you think you will be able to do so?”

“I haven’t the least doubt of it.”

“Thunderation! If I had your confidence I’d be a second Sherlock
Holmes.”

“You could have if only you would think so. One has got to be
optimistic in this business. You are or you would not be in the
position that you now hold. As I happen to know you did not get that
through political pull, but through honest service to the city.”

“You bet.”

“Therefore you are Chief.”

“I want to ask you, Clayton, if you have any idea at all how this thing
was done?”

“What?”

“The making way with these people.”

Jeff reflected a moment before replying.

“Yes, I know how it was done,” he made answer in an even tone.

“The devil, you say?”

“Your expression about describes it. It was the devil’s own work and he
hasn’t finished with it yet.”

“What makes you think that?”

“These people are being killed for some certain definite object, and
until that is accomplished, these mysterious deaths will continue.”

“And that object?”

“I am free to confess that I don’t know. I may have a shrewd suspicion,
but that is not sufficient. Perhaps it may be for the return of some
valued treasure that--”

“I never thought of that before. That might explain them.”

“But all of these people couldn’t have owned such an article. It is
positive that they never have, therefore we have not quite arrived at
the motive yet. That we are near to it I am positive. I shall reach the
solution eventually, and it must be soon, for the red dragon stings
quickly and altogether too frequently. My men are at work on certain
phases of the case that will decide me as to which line of inquiry I
shall follow first.”

“Is there anything you wish me to do?”

“No, except to go on with your inquiry along quiet lines.”

“Do you wish me to keep you posted as to what we are doing?”

“Not at all. I do not wish to appear in this matter at all. I must
request that you confide in no one that either I am working on your or
the New York end. It is of vital importance that not a breath of the
truth get out. It would be better too if your men worked with more than
ordinary caution and secrecy. We have evidently got pitted against us
all the cunning of the East. These are no ordinary men who are doing
this wholesale and I might add artistic killing. But most of them are
hired assassins. It is the man back of them whom I want to get my hands
on first, however, I do not care so much about the other fellows.”

“You astonish me, Clayton. Why?”

“Why? Because I do not care so much about the small fry.”

“Yes, I see.”

“They are of no great importance.”

“But it would be worth while to get one’s hands on them. They might
be put through the third degree and they might on the other hand turn
states evidence without even that.”

Jeff laughed whereat the chief flushed.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I should like to see you work the third on the men who are in this.
Might as well try it on an Egyptian mummy for all the information you
would get. You don’t know what you’re up against, Chief.”

The police official sighed.

“It is evident that I do not.”

“I shall have to be going now.”

“When shall I hear from you?”

“When I have anything of importance to communicate. I would suggest
that you place one of your men in the guise of a servant, in each house
where these mysterious crimes have been committed. Have them keep
eternally on the watch and accompany the occupants of the house--the
family wherever they go at all times of the day or night.”

“But they wouldn’t consent to that,” objected the Chief.

The detective shrugged his shoulders.

“If they prefer to die, all well and good. They surely will. Take my
word for that.”

The truth of Jeff Clayton’s prophecy came home to them a few minutes
later, just as the detective had risen and was preparing to leave.
Word was brought in by the Chief of Detectives, that another member
of a certain banker’s family in the Quaker City had died suddenly that
afternoon, under the same circumstances. The family, he said were
panic-stricken.

“Am I right?” questioned the detective with a quizzical smile.

“You are,” answered the Chief in a troubled voice. “You always are. I
am glad I sent for you, and I want to tell you that I appreciate your
prompt response.”

“Don’t mention it. Follow out my instructions, or rather suggestions,
in so far as you can.”

“I shall do so to the letter.”

Bidding the Chief good day, Jeff strolled from headquarters, but not
one of the keen-eyed sleuths who took mental measurement of him as he
passed out, had the remotest idea that the quiet, well-dressed business
man was the world-famous detective, Jeff Clayton.

Jeff first went to the hotel where he knew he should find Harper Gordon
awaiting him, after which he took a carriage to the Broad street
station and boarded a train for Washington. He had left with his
assistant certain brief instructions regarding some investigations in
Philadelphia, before leaving. At the Broad street station the detective
had noticed a well dressed Japanese. He was under the impression that
he had observed the man shortly after leaving headquarters, but he
could not be quite sure of the fact.

The Japanese had taken a chair in the parlor car of the Congressional
limited, in which Jeff found himself, but appeared to take no notice of
the detective.

Beyond the fact that he made it a rule to examine the faces of
everyone about him, the detective had no reason for special interest
in this man. However, he could not resist the impulse that the fellow
would bear watching.

When the parlor car conductor was passing, Jeff halted him.

“Don’t look back, but be good enough to tell me if you know the
Japanese at the rear of the car. You must know everybody who rides on
this train, don’t you?”

“Pretty much all of them.”

“Do you know him?”

“I have heard his name, but I couldn’t pronounce it unless somebody hit
me with a club to bring it out.”

“What is he?”

“He is an attaché of the Japanese embassy at Washington.”

“Thank you. Well, I guess that’s all I want to know,” mused the
detective with a quiet smile. “Japanese gentlemen connected with the
embassy are not mixing up in the kind of a game that I am trying to run
down, so we’ll leave him out of the reckoning.”

Reaching Washington the detective took a taxi directly to the home of
the Secretary of State, whom he knew well. The Secretary was at dinner
when Jeff arrived, but Jeff had only a few minutes to wait, when the
Secretary hurried in, greeting his caller with unusual warmth.

After their greetings the Secretary asked to what he was indebted for
the call.

“I am sure,” he said, “that it is not a purely social visit. I think I
know Jeff Clayton well enough to know that he is altogether too busy a
man to waste his time in any such occupation.”

“You are right, Mr. Secretary. Can we speak here undisturbed?”

“Come to my study.”

When they had seated themselves in the quiet room, where the Secretary
spent long hours in shaping the policy of his branch of the Government,
and had lighted their cigars, the detective began to speak.

“I deem it much better to make a clean breast of the case on which I am
engaged, as I am very much in need of certain information that you can
furnish me with, I believe.”

“Whatever lies in my power to do for you, Jeff Clayton, will be done.
You know that well, without my telling you.”

“Thank you.”

“Is it anything connected with the Government?”

“It may be. I am unable to say at the present moment. The particular
cases concern a series of mysterious and cold blooded murders.”

“Murders?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“New York and Philadelphia. And if I am not mistaken, some of the
victims are personal friends of yours.”

“Of mine?”

“Yes.”

“To whom and what do you refer?”

“We will say for instance, to the deaths of James and Roger Delano?”

“What?”

The detective nodded his head convincingly.

“To put it plainly, that is the fact.”

“But--but--” protested the official. “You said murder. Both the Delanos
died natural deaths. I attended the funeral of both myself. That family
has been sorely afflicted.”

“Yes, the daughter of James died in my arms.”

“Is it possible?”

“I repeat, despite what may be the public understanding, that each of
these three were murdered. There were--are, I should say--several who
met their death in the same way.”

“You amaze me. But why, if this be the case, has not something been
done?”

“Something is being done, Mr. Secretary. Something will be done and in
the course of a short time, I hope, the guilty ones will be brought to
justice.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“That is what I am coming to.”

Thereupon, the detective began with great detail to relate to the
Secretary of State all that he knew of the various deaths under
the sign of the red dragon, omitting no fact, however trivial that
might help the Secretary to get a more thorough understanding of the
situation. Jeff knew that all his information was as safe as if locked
up in his own brain, and besides, he needed the assistance of the
Secretary in getting certain information.

“Amazing! Astounding!” breathed the official after the recital had been
finished. “And what is it that you want me to do? The resources of the
government are at your command, Mr. Clayton.”

“I want to know something about Roger Delano.”

“About his family?”

“About his connection with the government. He represented you in the
East did he not?”

“Tokio.”

“So I have been informed.”

“What of it?”

“Do you happen to know whether he had any troubles there with the
people?”

“Not to my knowledge. Wait a moment. If I remember correctly, Delano
was sent over to Peking at the time of the Boxer troubles, and it is a
fact that he aroused the enmity of some powerful mandarins there for
some reason that never was explained to the entire satisfaction of the
department. Our Chief Clerk Delafield will remember the details better
than I, for at that time, you know, I was not Secretary of State.”

Jeff nodded.

“Tell me all you can recall of it.”

“I recall none of the details, even if I ever knew them. I am not sure.
There was something about his having harbored a wealthy mandarin when
the Boxers sought his life. Acting purely in the interests of humanity,
I believe he was never criticized by the Department. As long as no
international complications resulted, there was nothing to be done,
from our end. Would you like to talk with Delafield about the case?”

“I most certainly should.”

“Then I’ll call him up. Would you like to see him here or at his home?”

“At his home will be best. No need to trouble you,” answered Jeff.

The Secretary then had his secretary call up the chief clerk and make
the necessary arrangements, without of course, divulging the purpose of
the visit. Jeff was just preparing to take his leave when a card was
brought in to his host.

“H-m-m-m,” mused the Secretary. “Matsui, attaché of Japanese Legation.
What can he want of me at this time of night?”

“Matsui, did you say?” questioned Jeff with a trace of eagerness in his
voice.

“Yes, do you know him?”

“Perhaps I have seen him. Mr. Secretary the man is here to ask you
some questions. Please be very guarded if I am referred to in the
conversation. I may be wrong, but I have an impression as to the
purpose of this visit, and that it relates to me, I am certain.”

“You amaze me,” again exclaimed the official. “You do not for a moment
think that he--”

“I’ll talk with you later about what I think. I shall ask you what Mr.
Matsui wanted later in the evening. If it is matters of state that he
wishes to discuss, of course I have no interest in them. But I have a
shrewd suspicion that you will find he wants to talk about something
else,” smiled the detective, taking his leave from the Secretary.

Jeff’s visit to the Chief Clerk occupied several hours. During that
time records were referred to and every moment of Roger Delano’s life
while he represented the government in the East was gone over--that is,
so far as the records shed light, and they were much more full than the
detective had believed would be the case. He had learned much. He had
something definite now, on which to base his investigations, but the
answer lay far beyond him still.

The hour was so late that he thought best not to return to the
Secretary’s house. Instead, Jeff, learning that a train left for New
York in an hour, strolled off to the Pennsylvania station where he
waited until the train was made up then started for New York. But his
going was not unobserved. A polished, well dressed Japanese was close
behind him, although at that moment the detective was unaware of the
presence of the shadow upon his trail.

The detective took a sleeping car berth and tumbled quickly in after
having deposited his belongings in a safe place under the mattress
beneath the place where his head would lay when once he had settled to
repose.

The detective was asleep almost instantly. A few minutes later the
train moved off, gaining in speed as it slipped from the shadow of the
great dome and the Washington monument.

The lights in the car were low, and the porter was in the toilet room
disposing of some work that required his attention there.

Suddenly a dark figure stole down the corridor. His progress was
absolutely noiseless, his movements quick, but without the slightest
trace of nervousness.

At section number eight he paused. This was the section occupied by
Jeff Clayton. The detective’s left hand was hanging easily over the
side of the berth.

The skulking figure parted the curtains ever so little. With a sharp
glance up and down the aisle, he drew from his coat pocket an oblong
package which he inserted through the parted curtains. A moment more
and he had pressed it lightly against the arm of the detective.

Jeff stirred restlessly. Then he suddenly woke up and as quickly thrust
his head out from between the curtains and looked up and down the aisle.

Not a person was in sight. The train was whirling along through the
night. Jeff decided that he had been dreaming and settled back to sleep
once more. Yet had he known what had awakened him, there would have
been no sleep for Jeff Clayton that night.




CHAPTER IX.

JEFF FEELS THE FANGS.


All at once he awakened with a strong sense of impending evil.

“I wonder if I have been dreaming,” he murmured. Removing his watch
from his vest pocket he found that the hour was three o’clock in the
morning. Daylight would soon be upon them.

Slipping the watch back in its former resting place, the detective
was about to settle back once more when he sensed a peculiar burning
feeling in the left arm. He brushed his hand over the spot and found
that this action caused the itch to become a smart--almost a burn.

“What the devil,” muttered the detective. “I wonder if I have been
bitten. If so, it is the first time that ever occurred to me in a
pullman sleeper. It must be something else.”

He thrust his arm out into the aisle, following it with his head, so
that the light from the Pintsch burner over him might fall directly on
the troubled arm.

Pulling up his sleeve Jeff glanced curiously at the arm. As he did
so he uttered a smothered exclamation. There on the white firm flesh
glowed a brilliant red sinister dragon.

“I guess they’ve got me this time,” announced Jeff Clayton calmly as
he reached for the electric button which he gave a violent push, then
proceeded to get into his clothes with more haste than was his ordinary
wont. “That’s what made me wake up so suddenly a short time ago. How in
the name of all the saints did they manage to plant that thing on me
without my waking up? I remember now. I did wake up and looked out into
the aisle. Ah! Here’s the porter.”

“You ring, sah?”

“Yes. Have you got a doctor on board?”

“Yes, sah.”

“Where is he?”

“In de next cah, sah.”

“Who is he?”

“Doctah Paks--”

“Parks of New York?”

“Yes sah.”

“Send him to me quickly. Tell him to bring his instruments if he has
any and not to lose a holy minute. Now jump if you want to earn a tip
that’s worth while.”

The porter waited to hear no more but started on a run for the rear
car. He returned in a few minutes with the information that Doctor
Parks would be there as soon as he could get into his clothes.

In the meantime Jeff had donned all his clothing save his coat, collar
and vest and hurried back to the smoking compartment. Less than five
minutes elapsed when the door of the sleeper slammed and the surgeon
hurried in. Jeff caught a glimpse of him through the open smoking room
door.

“In here, Doctor,” he called.

“What, why, hello! Clayton, I didn’t know you were on the train.”

“Very much so,” grinned the detective.

“What’s the trouble. The porter said I was wanted here in a hurry.
Surely it is not you who wants me. Where is the patient, do you know?”

“I ought to in view of the fact that I am that patient himself.”

“You?”

“Surest thing you know.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Trouble good and plenty. Got your instruments of torture?”

“I have my instruments with me. But what do you want with instruments?
There seems to be nothing very serious the matter with you.”

The detective had lighted a cigar and was leaning lazily back against
the cushioned seat.

“Matter enough. I’ve been stung proper this time.”

“Where?”

“Here.” Jeff bared his arm and held it up for the inspection of the
medical man.

“I don’t understand. That is merely a tattoo mark. What’s the matter
with you anyway?” he demanded shooting a keen glance at the detective.

“Yes, it is a tattoo mark, but it is more than that. I want you to cut
it out and bore deep while you are about it.”

“What for?”

“For the reason that if you do not I shall have to use my jack-knife.
If that mark remains there until morning I shall be a dead man before
another week passes over my head.”

“Nonsense. What makes you think so?”

“Will you cut?”

“Certainly, if you wish it, but it’s a foolish proceeding--”

“See here Parks, you know me?”

“Of course.” The surgeon had by this time opened his case and was
preparing for the operation that he very much disapproved of.

“And you know that I am not given to hallucinations?”

“I do that.”

“Then when I tell you that that mark was placed on my arm when I slept
less than an hour ago and that it is one of the most subtle and deadly
of Oriental poisons, you will believe me, will you not?”

“Good heavens, man, do you mean it?”

“I most certainly do.”

“But how do you know this?”

“Because nearly a dozen persons have died with that brand on their arm
within the past month. Two of them, both women, died in my arms, as
I’ll be doing if you don’t get a move on.”

Dr. Parks uttered an exclamation of amazement.

“But, but, perhaps it is too late.”

“The poison acts slowly. I think if we can cut the skin off entirely
and cause profuse bleeding we shall eliminate the danger. While you are
at work I will tell you how the poison has worked in the cases that I
mentioned and perhaps we can together dope out some sort of an antidote
that will be useful, not only in my case, but in others as well. The
trouble is that those who get the sign of the red dragon, seldom are
aware of the fact until too late to stop the work of the deadly thing.”

“Marvelous. An Eastern poison, you think?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any idea--”

“Save that piece of skin. Don’t throw it away. I want to make an
analysis of it when I get home.”

The surgeon’s keen knife had taken off the offending dragon in one
clean cut and he was about to toss it out of the window when checked by
his patient.

The porter, big-eyed and as near pale as one of his color could be, had
hurriedly withdrawn when he saw the knife perform its bloody task.

“Yes, I have a pretty good idea now. Do you think you had better cut
all the way to the bone and take out all the flesh?”

“No, I should not advise that. I will lance to the bone however, and
cause the blood to flow freely. That should carry off the poison if any
is there, as you say it works extremely slow.”

“That has been my observation. Seems to me you’ve got half the blood
out of my body already,” said the detective, steeling himself against
the pain which was intense by this time.

“There, I think that should answer. I will put on an antiseptic
dressing and bind the wound up. You had best not use the arm for a few
days as it might cause you a lot more trouble if you do,” advised the
doctor.

“That arm has work to do, Doctor. There’s no rest in sight for it. I
shall have to move lively now while the trail is hot. How much do I owe
you for this little carving job?”

“Nothing. You ought to know better than to ask.”

“I’m not very wise you know,” laughed the detective. “Where’s that
skin?”

“Here. I’ll wrap it up in some oiled paper and seal it. I’m interested
in this matter, Jeff. I wish you would let me take it home with me and
make an analysis. I’ll tell you what, I’ll take half of it, if you are
willing. I will make my examination and you do the same, then we’ll see
how near we can come to agreeing.”

“Good. That’s an excellent idea.”

“How does the arm feel?”

“As big as the side of a hay barn.”

“I should advise your going back to bed now.”

“What, with the fellow who did this, still hanging about on this train?
Not I. I’m going after him.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

Jeff nodded and rang for the porter.

“The slaughter is over. You may come in,” laughed the detective. “See
here, I want to ask you some questions.”

“Ye--yes sah.”

“Did you see anybody fooling about this car after I went to bed?”

“No, sah.”

“Sure now?”

“Suah, sah.”

“You have said nothing to any one about what you have seen this
evening, have you?”

“No, sah.”

“Then see to it that you don’t,” directed the detective handing a five
dollar bill to the porter. “I’m going through the train now. Where is
the conductor?”

“Up in de buffet smoker, I reckon, sah.”

“Very well, come on Doctor.”

Together the two men proceeded to the forward end of the train where
they found the conductor at work on his report for the night’s run, the
train having left Philadelphia and headed away for New York.

“Mr. Conductor, I am Jefferson Clayton of New York. This is Dr. Parks.”

“Yes, I know the doctor, and I know you by reputation. What can I do
for you?”

Jeff explained to him exactly what had happened and after impressing
upon the official the necessity of absolute silence regarding what had
occurred on the train asked the conductor if he had seen any Chinamen
or Japanese on the train.

“Yes, there are two on the train at this moment,” replied the conductor.

“Ah, where are they?”

“Let me see, yes, here it is. One is in number four in the next car,
the other in eleven--lower eleven in the car to the rear of it.”

“I think you are mistaken,” smiled the detective.

“Come back and I’ll show you.” The conductor rose and started back
toward the other end of the train. When they reached number four the
official cautiously parted the curtains and peered in. He was amazed to
find the berth empty, and no sign of its having been occupied at all
that night.

“That is strange--”

“Not at all,” laughed the detective. “Now supposing we go to the other
one, number eleven.”

There they found the same condition. The berth had not been occupied.

“You will have to make a search of the train with me. By the way, has
this train stopped tonight?”

“Yes, twice.”

“Where?”

“Once in a block, next at North Philadelphia.”

“Oh well, then there’s no use in going any further. However, just as a
matter of form and so we shall not have to take anything for granted
we’ll go on with our search.”

This they did, beginning with the front platform of the baggage car and
ending with the platform of the tail car of the train. There was no
sign of the Japanese that the conductor said had started with tickets
for New York. His record showed, however, that the berths and the
tickets of the two men had been purchased almost at the same moment of
the train’s leaving time in Washington.

Jeff was thinking deeply.

“What is it?” questioned the Doctor.

“I was wondering where that fellow went after branding me. I surely
must have looked into the aisle almost at the moment when it was done,
but there was no one in sight. Supposing we look into the berth next to
mine?”

“That one is empty. We did look into it.”

“Yes, I know. But I want to examine it. There, see.”

“What?”

“Some one has been in here, not to sleep, but has sprung in hurriedly
to get out of sight. That’s where the fellow went after doing the job.
Wait. There’s something else here.”

“How do you know he jumped in here?”

“By the position of the curtains. If you will observe the wrinkles you
will see where he crawled in on the side next to my berth. Look at
the berth itself and you will note where his knees were pressed down,
leaving their imprint. He was sitting crouched on his knees ready to go
further with his devilish work in case he were discovered. You see he
rather expected I would jump out and get busy. Instead of that I went
to sleep,” grinned the detective. “I guess I deserved all I got, and
perhaps more. But, I must not brag. I am not out of the woods yet.”

“They can’t kill Jeff Clayton,” smiled the Doctor.

“No, I guess that’s right. I’m too tough. Is that it, Doc?”

“Something like that,” nodded the physician.

Jeff in the meantime was pawing about in the berth, examining the
quilts as he tore the bed apart in the berth next to his.

“What do you expect to find there?”

“I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I get to the bottom. Ah here it is.”

The detective drew out a felt case that held within it something hard
and unyielding. He held the parcel in his hand eyeing it curiously.

“What have you got there?” questioned the physician bending over
curiously.

“I don’t know. Come in the smoking room. We’ll have a look at it. By
the appearance of the case I should judge that it had been carried in
some one’s pocket for a long time.”

The two men hastened to the smoking compartment, where Jeff untied the
silken cord that held the receptacle shut, and after peering in slowly
withdrew the object that had been secreted in the case.

“What the deuce?” gasped the physician.

Jeff was turning the object over cautiously in his hand, as if it were
some dangerous object.

“Well, what do you call it?”

“This,” announced the detective, “is what is known as the green jade
god.”

“Looks to me more like a devil.”

“It may be at that. There are only two or three of these in this
country so far as is known and they are on the Pacific Coast. This may
have come from there and probably did for some certain purpose.”

“What is its particular function in life?”

“It is a Chinese god. The possessor of it is supposed to be shielded
from all harm.”

“Is it of any value to you in your present quest?”

“Value? My dear Parks I had almost as soon have this little hideous
trinket as the man himself, for it will lead me to him or him to me as
unerringly as the crow flies.”

Jeff Clayton was a true prophet, but the journey was to be long and
perilous ere he reached the goal.




CHAPTER X.

A GOD STRANGELY MISSING.


By the time the detective reached home next morning he had forgotten
all about the painful experience through which he had passed on the
previous night, excepting as the injured arm gave him a twinge of pain
now and then. His first duty was to hear the report of Snoopy Havens,
which appeared to give Jeff considerable satisfaction. Late in the
afternoon a phone call from Harper Gordon resulted in the latter’s
being called back to New York to take up some ends there that Jeff did
not himself have the time to follow out, as they were too trivial for
him to waste his efforts on.

All this arranged, Jeff proceeded to examine the curios that Walter
Delano had sent to the detective as requested.

What he found was a varied assortment of articles, such as knives,
weapons, carved ivory and trinkets of that sort. One thing that
attracted his attention and caused him to devote considerable attention
to, was an ivory Joss. Most of the articles were of Chinese make
which, in view of the fact that Roger Delano had been a government
official at Tokio, rather set Jeff Clayton thinking.

“It shows that he must have spent some time in China itself in order to
have accumulated so much stuff. And this evidently is only a small part
of it. I wish I knew just what the other articles were and where they
are.”

“I got some of them located,” informed Snoopy, who was an interested
observer and a curious one as well, while Jeff went over the articles
in question.

“Yes, but they hardly seem to me to be what we are looking after. Just
drop that green jade god into the drawer there by you, if you will. I
don’t want it to get mixed with this other stuff by any chance, for I
have an idea that it is a valuable find.”

Snoopy gingerly picked up the hideous object and shoved it into the
drawer with a muttered “ugh!”

“Can’t see how anybody could have any luck with that kind of a Billikin
in his clothes,” he growled.

Having disposed of the curios Jeff called his motor car and made a
hurried mysterious trip downtown where he called at the dingy office of
a collector of odds and ends from the far corners of the earth.

He did not return until supper time. No sooner had he entered the house
than he was informed that a visitor awaited him in the library.

“He will have to wait until I have finished my dinner, I guess,” smiled
the detective.

“I think you may want to see him,” suggested Harper Gordon who had
returned in the meantime.

“Why?”

“He’s a Japanese swell.”

“Indeed?” answered Jeff elevating his eyebrows ever so little.

“Yes, came over on the limited with me. In fact he was on the train
when I got on at Philly.”

“That sounds interesting. I think I’ll go up and see what he wants.”

The detective hurried to the upper floor where his caller was waiting
him in the study.

Jeff recognized him at once as the Japanese who had ridden on the same
train with him from Philadelphia to Washington the day before.

“Ah, Mr. Matsui, I believe,” greeted the detective as his guest half
rose in polite greeting.

“You--you know me, sir,” answered the Japanese apparently considerably
taken back.

“Yes.”

“Might I ask how? It is most remarkable.”

“I saw you in Washington yesterday.”

“Ah,” answered Mr. Matsui, his face wreathed in smiles. “You are most
observant. Then, there is no need to tell you who I am. You, I take it,
are the great American detective, Clayton.”

“I am Jefferson Clayton. How can I serve you?”

“Perhaps in many ways. It is an international matter in a way.”

“Not as between your government and mine, I trust?”

“Not at all.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Certain agents of the Russian Government are causing our embassy no
little embarrassment.”

“In what way?”

“By their constant espionage. Not one of the members of our embassy
makes a move but that he is followed, his footsteps dogged wherever he
goes. It has become unbearable.”

“And what is it that you wish me to do?”

“To learn if possible, what the motive of this practice is--to trace
the source of the trailers. Of course, I do not mean by that the
Russian Government itself, but the head of the organization here.”

“With what object?”

“When that shall have been done our own agents will care for the case.”

“Why don’t your agents do it now?”

“They have tried sir.”

“And failed?”

“That is it. They are lost by these shadows, played with, sir, as a
kitten would play with its prey.”

“How did you happen to come to me?”

“Your Honorable Secretary of State recommended that I do so. I called
upon him last evening, asking that he recommend some one to me who
would preserve the confidences of the nation which I represent.”

Jeff sat thoughtfully surveying his caller. Somehow he was not deeply
impressed with his guest. He felt a vague impression that there was
something about this visit that was not what it seemed to be on the
surface.

“Am I right in assuming that Mr. Clayton will condescend to enter the
high employ of my Emperor?”

The detective was on the point of saying “no,” when he suddenly changed
his mind.

“I will look into the matter,” he answered sharply.

“I am deeply honored.”

“Mind you, that is not saying that I will take the case. I said I
would look into it. Perhaps after I do I shall have decided that I want
nothing to do with it. You say all of you are constantly followed?”

“It is so.”

“Then, if that be true you have no doubt been followed here--an agent
undoubtedly is watching this house at this very moment?”

“It is even so,” answered Mr. Matsui a troubled expression appearing on
his face.

“Very well, I shall let you know what my decision in the matter is
after I have thought it over.”

“When shall I call that I may have this decision?”

“I’ll let you know,” answered the detective. “No need for you to call
again and inform these spies as to what you are doing. I will write or
get in touch with you in some way when I have finally made up my mind.”

“Then, I bid you good day, sir,” said the visitor rising and gently
brushing his silk hat. “I am deeply honored sir, that you will take up
the cause of our gracious master.”

“I haven’t yet. It doesn’t interest me specially at the present moment.
I may change my mind.”

The detective bowed his man to the door. The moment it closed behind
the caller, Jeff rang his bell sharply and called for Snoopy Havens.

“Did you see that Jap who was in here?”

“Yes.”

“Well follow him. Be quick about it before he gets out of sight.”

“How long?”

“Until he takes a train for Washington or settles himself somewhere in
the city. Better go out the back way. He is headed for Ninth avenue
and unless I mistake will take the elevated at the Twenty-third street
station.”

“I’m off.”

Snoopy disappeared quickly, passing out through the basement and out to
the street at the rear of the house. After he had gone, Jeff settled
down in his study.

“Curious, I can’t define exactly the impression that fellow made on
me. There is something that don’t ring true about him. Now what did he
come here for? I don’t believe a word of what he said. The case that
he sought to interest me about was too trivial to claim the attention
of anybody. I think the proper thing for me to have done would have
been to place him under arrest. But that would have raised some merry
international complications. He is the accredited representative of his
government at Washington and Jeff Clayton would have gotten himself
into a nice kettle of fish had he taken any such action. But would he?
Well, I am not so sure of that after all,” reflected the detective.

After a moment’s thought he turned to the telephone and getting long
distance requested that he be put in personal communication with the
Secretary of State.

The connection was made quickly, and after a little difficulty Jeff
found himself speaking with his party.

“This is Mr. Clayton, Mr. Secretary,” he said. “I was sorry not to have
seen you again, but I was obliged to hurry back to New York.”

“Did you get what you were in search of?” questioned the official.

“Partly. How about the gentleman who called while I was there. Was I
right in my prophecy that he would inquire about me?”

“You were. It was marvelous.”

Jeff laughed softly.

“What did he want?”

“To know if you were a safe person to entrust with a state secret.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I did a most discourteous thing.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I laughed in his face. The question was so ridiculous, knowing
you as I did, that I could not help it. But I explained, so that there
was no offence. I should not be surprised if you had a call from the
attaché. He evidently is in need of your services.”

“He evidently lost no time, for I already have received a call from
him.”

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“When, may I ask?”

“Less than half an hour ago.”

“Impossible,” exclaimed the Secretary.

“Why do you say that, Mr. Secretary?”

“For the reason that Mr. Matsui has been in my office today. He came
here with a message from his ambassador.”

“Well, well. How long ago was that?”

“As in your case, Mr. Matsui left me less than half an hour ago.”

“Thank you,” answered the detective, hanging up the telephone with a
broad grin on his face. “It is quite evident to me that the Honorable
Mr. Matsui, attaché of the Japanese Legation, was born twins.”

Jeff Clayton did not seem to be greatly surprised at the information he
had just received, startling as it was. But instead of allowing himself
to be troubled by it, he stepped around his desk with the intention of
taking the green jade god from its resting place and subjecting it to a
more thorough examination than he had yet given it. Jeff was confident
that the hideous image possessed a secret that he had not yet found.
It was his intention to learn that secret, if such there were, before
going any further in his investigation.

The detective pulled the drawer open and reached in with the full
confidence of finding it where he had seen his assistant place it with
his own hands.

“What--what’s this?” exclaimed the detective, drawing the drawer full
open.

The green jade god was gone. It had disappeared as mysteriously as if
through some superhuman agency.

“I thought as much,” muttered the detective shoving the drawer shut
with an impatient bang.




CHAPTER XI.

WHERE THE TRAIL LED.


In the meantime the detective had called up the Japanese ambassador at
Washington and through him learned that Mr. Matsui had not been absent
from the capital at all. Further than this the detective detailed
briefly over the telephone the conversation he had had with the
supposed attaché that afternoon. The ambassador denied that any such
conditions existed, adding that if Mr. Matsui desired any such services
it was personal rather than official.

“It looks to me very much as if Fate were playing into my hands this
time,” smiled the detective. “Here, I have only to sit in my study and
the case works itself out around me without any great effort on my
part. But I have an idea the matter is drawing to a point where I shall
have to jump into the arena and get busy.”

Much now depended upon the report that Snoopy Havens brought back, and
this Jeff was awaiting with more or less impatience, as it would decide
him as to the next move to be made in this strange, mysterious game.

Snoopy did not return until some time after midnight. Jeff was up and
waiting for him.

He was prepared for news that his recent caller was not what he had
seemed to be, but not for the information that Snoopy returned with.

“Well, what about it?” questioned Jeff, as soon as his assistant had
gotten to the study. “Gave you a long chase, didn’t he?”

“He did,” grinned the assistant.

“Let’s have the story.”

“When we left here, we took the elevated as you thought would be the
case. But instead of going down, we went uptown.”

“Where?”

“To the Knickerbocker.”

“What did our man do there?”

“He met another Japanese and together they retired to a corner of the
café where they pow-wowed for an hour or more.”

“Did you get close enough to hear what they were saying?”

“Yes.”

“What were they talking about?”

“Good heavens, I don’t know. D’ye think I understood that heathen
lingo?”

“They talked in their own language, of course.”

“I don’t know what they talked about. But they acted as if they was hot
under the collars about something.”

“What next?”

“After a while they separated--”

“Wait a minute--were either of the men stopping at the hotel?”

“No. I inquired about that.”

Jeff nodded his approval.

“After the pow-wow they separated, as I have already said. You told me
to follow the sport who was here, so I let the other one go. I don’t
know where he went. I hit the trail of your man.”

“Where did it lead?”

“You couldn’t guess,” grinned Snoopy.

“I’m not trying to. I am asking you to tell me.”

“The gent took a car downtown--too stingy to take a taxi I suppose.
Well, the outfit pulled up down on the Bowery near Chatham square where
he paid the taxi driver and hit the pike by his lonesome. The next stop
was at a Chinese restaurant on Doyer street. One of those joints that
you can smell a year after you’ve been in them.”

“Joss sticks,” nodded Jeff.

“Stink sticks, I call them. There was a lot of other Yanks in there
so I went in too and ordered some stuff. I got where I could see our
friend who sat facing the door. He’s a wise guy, Jeff.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because several times a Chinaman would come in and pass the table.
When they did, our Jap friend would shoot something at him under his
breath after which the Chinaman would pass on and either sit down to a
table for a meal or else circle the place and go out again.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“It was to me.”

“Then, you think Matsui as he calls himself, was not unknown to the
place?”

“You bet he wasn’t. At least not to several Chinks who came in. It
seemed to me as if he was there by appointment.”

“Then what?”

“He went out, stopped to light a cigarette, then went on down the
street to the place where they keep the red devil.”

“The what?”

“The Josh--”

“Oh, you mean the Joss house?”

“That’s the dope.”

“Did you go in after him?”

“Bet I did.”

“Anything develop?”

“I should say so. I was right at his heels. Not a Chink offered any
objection to my going up stairs. But Matsui was a few feet ahead of
me. You know I couldn’t step on his heels.”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, he opened a door and stepped in shutting the door behind him. I
bolted right in after. And what do you think?”

“Yes.”

“The Jap sport was not there at all.”

“What sort of a room was it?”

“It was a hell of a room, if you know what kind that is.”

Jeff smiled.

“I think I know the kind you refer to.”

“There was a hideous figure almost as high as the room, with great
red eyes and smoke coming out of his mouth. The place smelled like a
Turkish tobacco shop. Well, as I said before the old sport was not
there, but in place of him was a grinning, bowing Chink.”

“What did he say?”

“He held out his hand, and said, ‘Melican man give Jloss,’ the darned
idiot.”

“He wanted you to give a peace offering?”

“I guess.”

“Did you?”

“I did. He had me dead to rights. I bought everything that old Joss had
to sell.”

“But you saw no more of the Japanese?”

“Narry a thing. But I asked the Chink if he had seen a swell guy with a
plug hat and a sporty cane.”

“Of course he hadn’t?”

“Not he. Couldn’t even understand what I said. He could understand all
right when I was buying stuff for Joss. He could talk like a house
afire then, but as soon as I wanted any information he didn’t know
anything. I had a good notion to smash him one just for luck.”

“It was well you did nothing of the sort. That would have resulted
seriously.”

“Huh, there was only one.”

“And a dozen or more grinning yellow devils somewhere in the
background. You probably never would have gotten out of that place
alive if you had made any such foolish move as that. We are up against
a bad gang, Snoopy, and I’ve got an idea from what you tell me. By the
way, this fellow Matsui was not Matsui at all.”

“Not Matsui?”

“No.”

“What d’ye mean?”

Jeff explained, relating briefly the conversation he had had with
Washington since Snoopy started out on the trail of the supposed
attaché.

“Well, if that don’t beat the book. What’s your idea. You said you had
one from what I’ve said.”

“Either that fellow is no Japanese at all or else--”

“Not a Jap? Sure he is.”

“On the contrary, I have an idea that he’s a Chinaman in disguise.
Either that or else he is in the service of the Chinamen who are
pulling this job off. He is the cleverest Oriental that it ever has
been my privilege to go against. I am glad I have seen him, for I know
where to lay our lines from this point on. Where did you put the green
jade god that I told you to leave in the drawer, Snoopy?”

“Put it in the drawer, ’course. Where’d you suppose?”

“I took for granted that you did.”

“Why?”

“Because it is not there, Snoopy. The green jade god has mysteriously
disappeared.”

“You--don’t--say?”

“Yes.”

“But where--how?”

“I have a shrewd suspicion both where and how.”

“You don’t think--”

“I think our friend the alleged Mr. Matsui took it away with him. If
you will remember, he was in this room alone for some time before I
came up stairs.”

“That’s so.”

“And furthermore, I am convinced that he came here for no other
purpose than to get the idol and take it away with him. I knew that
was an important piece of evidence, if not much more. It was very
short-sighted in me not locking it away where it could not be taken.
Pong didn’t get his eyes on it, did he?”

“Nope.”

“Did he let Matsui in?”

“No, didn’t see him, I don’t believe. Harper let the fellow in.”

“That was my idea.”

“Pong was helping with the dinner. What you going to do about it?”

“Do? I’m going after the god on my own hook. Turn about is fair play.
But this shows you the length to which those fellows will really go to
recover a little thing like that. It points the way strongly to the
solution of these crimes.”

“How?”

“That the recovery of some article is the motive back of them all. Of
that, I am positive.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“No. There is no way of deciding that question until we get further
along. If Pong would talk I am satisfied he could give us a tip that
would be of great value. But he won’t.”

“Why not make him?”

Jeff shook his head.

“He’s altogether too good a servant. I didn’t hire him for the
information I might get out of him.”

Jeff Clayton got up briskly and began stripping off his coat, after
which he brought out his make-up box and worked some dark rings under
his eyes all the time keeping up a running fire of questions in the
hopes of drawing further information from his associate.

After the dark rings had been put in place, the detective threw his
face into various expressions until finally he hit upon one that seemed
to suit his purpose. Turning to Snoopy Havens Jeff smiled.

“How do I look, old man?”

“You look like one of them dope fiends. Gee, how like the devil you do
look.”

“That’s the way I want to look--not like the devil, but like one of the
other kind you just mentioned. I think I’d better change my clothes.
They are a little too good quality for the sort of a degenerate I am
going to pass for.”

In a few minutes the detective had gotten into another suit, which
with his new facial expression gave him the appearance of shabby
gentility. It was plain, too, to those familiar with the type, that he
was some kind of a fiend.

“Think any one would recognize me, Snoopy?”

“Never. Not even your own grandmother if you were to step on her pet
corn.”

Jeff laughed lightly.

“But where you going, Chief?”

“Thought I would take a trip through Chinatown.”

“This time of night?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Look out that you don’t get a knife between your ribs.”

“Did you?”

“Well no, but I might.”

“You’re right you might have.”

“Where you going down there, Jeff?”

“I am not sure. I shall drop into Hah Gat’s place before the night is
over.”

“The opium joint?”

“Yes.”

“Better take me along.”

“No, they know you down there now. Hah Gat knows me ordinarily, but he
won’t know me tonight.”

By this time Jeff had gotten himself into shape that he decided would
be best for the purpose of his quest. His next duty was to examine
his weapons, slip a pair of handcuffs into his pocket after which he
decided that he was ready to start.

It was now nearly two o’clock in the morning. The detective called his
motor car and ordered the driver to take him to Chatham Square then
return home.

Bidding good night to Snoopy, with the instruction to not be alarmed
in case Jeff did not return before morning, the detective started away
at a lively clip, headed for the haunts of the mysterious, slant-eyed
Chinese.




CHAPTER XII.

WHERE DREAMS ARE MADE.


“You can turn about now,” announced the detective, dropping from his
car in a secluded spot where his action was not likely to be observed.
The car did not even come to a stop, he having posted his driver before
taking the jump.

But there was one pair of eyes that did observe him. They belonged to a
policeman. Jeff saw the officer skulking in a doorway as he approached
the sidewalk, but paid no attention to him until he was passing the
doorway when he felt a heavy hand laid on his shoulder.

“Well, what do you want?” demanded the detective.

“Want you to give an account of yourself.”

The supposed dope fiend whined that he was doing no harm, while the
officer flashed a light in his face. His reason for adopting this
tone was that he discovered a silent soft-footed figure slink by them
as the officer collared Jeff. It was a Chinaman. But the moment the
Celestial had gotten out of ear shot the detective, whispered in his
natural voice, “I’m Jeff Clayton. Don’t detain me. Give me a shove and
threaten to run me in if you see me sneaking around here again. Do it,
so they can hear you.”

The officer was quick-witted enough to grasp the meaning of the
detective’s words instantly.

“Out of here, you dope!” he shouted brandishing his club. “If I catch
sight of you in this precinct again I’ll have you over on the Island to
sober up. Now git!”

Jeff did git. Breaking away from his captor he ran as if expecting
every moment to feel that heavy hand on his shoulder again. In his
haste to get away the dope fiend ran plump into the Chinaman who had
tried to overhear what passed between Jeff and the officer when he
passed.

However unexpected the collision might have been to the Chinaman, it
was part of a well laid plan with the detective.

He grasped the surprised Celestial and pointed back to the policeman.

“Bad man--. You speakee English?”

“Speakee likee Melican man,” answered the Chinaman. “What you want?”

“Sh-h-h,” whispered Jeff with mouth close to the heathen’s ear. “You
know Hah Gat?”

“Hah Gat?” The Chinaman shook his head slowly. “You wantee Hah Gat?”

“Me do.”

“Why you wantee Hah Gat?” questioned the Celestial suspiciously.

“Sh-h-h. Me want smokee pipee,” informed Jeff in a hoarse whisper. “No
smokee then die,” and the supposed fiend rolled his eyes in the agony
of despair.

“Melican mlan smokee likee hellee. Smokee dlam head off,” decided the
Celestial with a hopeless shake of the head.

“Where is it, John? That’s a good fellow, show me the way.”

“Alle light. Me show.”

Jeff had won his point. He was determined to gain access to the joint
of Hah Gat, but to do so, even were he able to find the place, without
proper introduction, would not be an easy task.

The Chinaman offered no further comment but started away down Doyer
street, after first casting suspicious glances up and down the street
to make sure that no blue-coated guardian of the peace was observing
him. He knew that being in company with a white man would attract
attention to himself at once, even were the officer inclined to pass
him by without notice were he alone.

As a matter of fact there had been bloody times in Chinatown for a
month past. Two rival Tongs had been doing each other to death, but
for what reason no man of the white race had been able to learn. As a
result the police were more than ordinarily watchful--little good it
did them--and Chinatown’s business went on much the same, only less
boldly.

To gain access to one of the worst dives in the colony--where probably
more crimes had been committed or hatched than any other place in
Chinatown, Hah Gat’s place, required vouching for.

Jeff had cleverly found a voucher. He was hurrying along looking
neither to the right nor left, the Chinaman’s feet making no sound save
now and then a half shuffle as the felt shoe scraped the pavement.

At last he turned and threaded his way down a dark alley that led back
between two dilapidated buildings, where hundreds of people had their
squalid homes.

The alley ended in a narrow, foul-smelling court. Jeff knew that there
was a lamp somewhere about, and that should always be lighted. This
had either gone out or been blown out purposely, probably the latter,
leaving the court in stygian darkness.

“Melican mlan want smokee?” demanded the Chinaman suddenly, grasping
Jeff firmly by the arm.

“No smokee, no livee,” answered Jeff.

His guide without further words pushed inward a door. His familiarity
with its location told the detective that the fellow traveled that way
frequently.

They threaded their way through a dark, vile hallway. At the end there
was a slight hesitation on the part of the guide, then came a light
scratching sound done with the end of a long finger nail. It was
responded to by a similar scratch from the opposite side of the door,
the door was softly opened.

A few quick, guttural sounds were exchanged, after which Jeff’s
conductor grasped him by the arm and began descending a steep flight of
rickety stairs. They were going down into the cellar.

“So, this is the place that the police never have been able to find?”
thought the detective. “I don’t wonder at it. I can see that I should
have had a nice time myself getting in here.”

All the while the detective was making careful mental note of their
course so that he might be able to find his way out when it came time
to leave once more.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs he found that they were still some
distance from their destination for his guide started off down a long
narrow passage, dark like the other they had passed through, and
bringing up against what appeared to be a solid cellar wall. Here, the
scratching was again renewed.

Almost immediately a door was opened and Jeff was thrust in with a
chattering message from his guide. He could still see no light, but the
air was heavy with the fumes of the deadly opium pills. It almost made
him sick.

His eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, Jeff discovered that a
pair of heavy curtains shut off the apartment he was in, from another
room, where, he decided, the opium fiends were smoking. He started to
push the curtains aside when he was grasped by a bony hand and sharply
jerked back.

“Here, what the devil ails you, confound you?” he growled.

“What you want?” demanded a warning voice.

Jeff knew that its owner was a Chinaman.

“Smoke, smoke.”

The fellow produced a candle from his blouse, lighted it deliberately
and holding it up peered into the face of Jeff Clayton.

Jeff saw before him the most hideous, repulsive face that his eyes ever
had rested upon. One hand was resting under the long, yellow blouse and
the detective felt confident that the hidden hand was grasping the hilt
of a dagger, yet Jeff sensed no nervousness. His own sturdy right was
resting easily at his side, but ready for instant action at the least
sign of opposition from the Chinaman.

“No need to tell me his name. That’s Hah Gat,” thought Jeff. “He’s the
vilest specimen of human being that a man ever looked upon.”

“You no come here any?”

“Never been here before Hah.”

“How you know you smoke here?”

“Friend of mine told me, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me the place,
so I got a friend of yours to show me the way. Come, Hah, I’m dying for
a smoke. Do you want me to drop dead right here in your place and put
you to the trouble of dropping me through a sewer trap?” questioned
Jeff.

His shot went home as he saw by the quick start that his words caused
Hah Gat. It had been a random shot, but it reached.

“How many smoke you want?”

“How many can I get? I want all that my money will buy as long as I can
keep my eyes open.”

“One smoke, two bitee; two smoke, three bitee.”

“Here’s three bitee. If I’m awake after that’s gone we’ll double the
dose. Can I go in?”

Without replying, Hah Gat pulled the curtains aside, revealing a dimly
lighted room that disappeared far back in the shadows. The room was
partitioned off with frequent curtains, an aisle running down through
the center after passing the first large curtain. On well worn couches
all about lay men and women in various careless positions, some with
heads hanging nearly to the floor, others on the floor itself.

Hah motioned Jeff to a couch about three quarters of the way down the
room, and without the least hesitation the detective threw himself
upon the cot. Hah Gat hurried away, returning in a moment with a layout
which he handed to the detective then proceeded to light the tiny opium
pill and place upon the bowl of the pipe.

Jeff felt the eyes of Hah upon him. There was nothing for him to do but
to place the pipe in his mouth and inhale the vile stuff. He went at it
with the avidity of an habitual opium smoker.

Observing this, Hah’s suspicions seemed lulled and with a guttural
grunt he turned and left Jeff to the enjoyment of his smoke.

The moment the Chinaman had gone the detective quickly removed the pipe
from his mouth.

“My head feels as big as a barrel already. What would it feel like were
I to smoke all I have bought and paid for? This is simply horrible.”

Taking a small vial from his pocket the detective drank sparingly of it
and almost at once felt the counteracting influences of the drug that
he had provided himself with for this very purpose. But he could not
dissipate the heavy atmosphere about him, redolent with the incense of
the deadly pill.

Here and there a long drawn moan, a heavy sigh, a hysterical,
half-smothered laugh broke the stillness. It was not the first time
Jeff Clayton had been in a place such as this, so the sounds were not
new to him. He had heard it all before and interpreted it rightly. But
his ears were keyed sharply to catch the slightest sound. The detective
was looking for some one, or rather listening in this case, for there
was little to be seen from his secluded corner.

He had been there perhaps half an hour when half a dozen silent
Chinamen entered, four of them dropping on to couches the other two
proceeding right on down the aisle. Jeff’s listening ears caught the
sound of a softly closing door.

“That’s what I thought. There is another door and another room back
of this. I have got to find out what’s back there before I leave this
place. It may be a fan-tan joint, but I’m inclined to believe it isn’t.
Hello, here comes old Pain-in-the-Face again. He’s probably coming to
administer another pill. I was in hopes he would forget to give me the
second dose.”

Jeff lay back feigning drowsiness and when Hah Gat spoke to him he
roused up ever so little.

“Pill? Oh yes, that’s so. I was having a dream. My that was a nice
dream. I thought I was in heaven. Say Hah where’s all that beautiful
music? No music, you say. Oh, I see, it’s the little pill. Ha, ha,
musical pill. That’s right. There’s a thousand devils in every one of
them. Go way now and lemme go to sleep.”

With a disgusted grunt the Chinaman did as he was bid, knowing that his
customer would be heard from no more that night. Perhaps had Jeff been
better dressed Hah Gat might have made a silent trip to his berth a
little later, the nimble bony fingers slipping stealthily through the
clothes of his sleeping victim in search of loot.

But he knew that his customer had not much money. Jeff had given him an
extra fifty cents when he lay down with the admonition that he wanted
to be let alone after he got to sleep. With that Hah Gat was satisfied,
for there was much money in his strong box this night and many
smokers. The more difficult it was for his customers to get to the den,
the more of them came. It was a good thing to have the police active.
It made business.

Such is the perversity of human nature.

“I see an angel!” cried a woman’s voice. “Oh, look at her, look at her.”

Evidently an angel was no novelty to the patrons of Hah Gat’s den, for
no one paid any attention to the woman’s discovery, save the detective.

“What a pity,” he murmured. “It’s a terrible thing. She will be seeing
them in earnest before many months have passed over her head. Perhaps
they may not be exactly angels at that.”

Leaning from his berth he peered up the aisle where he could faintly
make out Hah Gat attending to the wants of his customers.

Jeff slipped from the berth, then suddenly climbed back again as he saw
the proprietor coming his way. But his alarm was needless, for Hah only
came part way down the aisle, halting at a curtained alcove to supply a
fresh pill to a drowsy sleeper.

When he had gone Jeff slipped from his berth again and pulled the
curtains close so that one in passing could not look in without parting
the curtains. Then he did a strange thing. Drawing his flash-light he
proceeded to investigate each curtained aperture all along the row.
Parting the curtains ever so little he would throw a slender ray from
his lamp into the face of the occupant of the compartment. It was all
so quickly done that even though the person were awake, they would not
have been disturbed by the fleeting flash, which might have come from
the effects of the opium.

There were white men and women and there were Chinamen, none of whom
Jeff had ever seen before. To go toward the front any further Jeff did
not deem wise, as were he to do so he would be in plain view of the
keen-eyed Chinaman.

He was nearing the rear of the passageway when all at once he caught
the sound of the door at the rear opening. There was no time to run to
his own berth, so Jeff dodged into the first one handy, in the hopes
that it might be empty.

As it chanced it was occupied by a Chinaman. Jeff clapped a hand over
the man’s mouth when he realized his predicament, but there was no
need for his so doing. The fellow was past waking from so slight a
disturbance. He was sleeping soundly under the influence of the opium.
There Jeff crouched close to the loathsome creature until the two
Chinamen whom he had seen enter earlier in the evening, had passed
on and disappeared behind the heavy curtain at the front. As quickly
as possible after that he made haste to get out of his unpleasant
situation. The corridor had once more settled down to its usual
murmurings of disordered brains.

Jeff’s purpose now was to find out what lay beyond the door that he had
heard open and shut, but which he had not as yet been able to locate.
He knew where he should find it, however, and without any further
delay, hastily crept back into the shadows.

It was so dark back there that he was forced to feel his way, not
deeming it wise to use his flash, else the rays might catch the keen
eyes of Hah Gat.

“Ah! Here it is,” he muttered. “I’m going to find out what’s in there
if it is the last thing I ever do. Pshaw, the door is locked. Those
fellows must have a key, which shows that the place is some kind of
a haunt for Hah’s friends or customers. Not many of them have access
to the place, though, that is sure. I’ve got an idea that it is the
meeting place for one of the Tongs and--and perhaps Hah may live there
when he is not doing business in the front room.”

It is true that many of these mysterious people did live in these
underground passages, where no breath of fresh pure air ever
penetrated. Nor did they seem to suffer any inconvenience from so
doing, so inured were they to the foul odors. Knowing this, perhaps,
the detective felt that he might glean information of use to him in
his present quest, though what he had in mind would have puzzled his
closest associates to guess.

“I shall have to pick the lock, that’s sure,” he muttered, drawing his
pick from his pocket and inserting it in the keyhole. It had no more
than gone home, when Jeff sensed the sudden consciousness of a presence
near him. Turning his head ever so little he saw standing almost over
him, with some weapon raised in the air to strike, the figure of a
Chinaman of almost giant proportions. Where he had come from Jeff did
not know. It was the first he had seen of the man. Where he had come
from or how long he had been observing the detective’s movements, Jeff
did not know. He believed, however, that the Chinaman had come upon him
entirely by accident--that Hah Gat had no suspicion of him.

All this passed through Jeff Clayton’s mind with lightning-like
rapidity, in spite of the danger of his position. Were the occupants
of the place to suspect him, especially the Oriental section, Jeff’s
life would not be worth much. At this moment it was in dire peril, with
a heavy club in the hands of the big Chinaman about to descend on his
head.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE DETECTIVE GETS BUSY.


But there was no time for delay. Instant action was necessary if he
hoped to save his life.

With a movement so quickly that the eye would have had difficulty in
following it, he straightened up as if propelled on springs. This
movement took the Chinaman wholly by surprise, he not knowing that the
intruder had observed his approach, Jeff having been careful not to let
him know that he was seen.

Jeff shot right up under the fellow’s guard, and before the heavy club,
which was held aloft, could be brought down on the victim’s head, the
detective’s fist caught his opponent on the point of the jaw with a
terrible short-arm jolt. This took all the fight out of Mr. Chinaman,
instantly. His head flew backward as if it would leave its owner’s
shoulders.

The plucky detective, however, did not propose to let his man fall.
His first care was to grab the club ere that fell to the floor with
such a clatter as to alarm the proprietor of the place. Next Jeff threw
his arms about the man, letting him quickly to the floor, where the
Chinaman lay limp and unconscious. The blow had had force enough to
break the neck of the average man, Jeff realizing that one blow must do
the work for his assailant. And it had.

Turning his head quickly, the detective observed that his brief battle
had been carried on so quietly that no attention had been attracted
to them. He was thankful for this as he was not yet ready to expose
his hand, having other things that he desired to do before leaving Hah
Gat’s disreputable joint.

First, however, the Chinaman must be disposed of. Jeff knew that the
fellow would come to in a very short time, so he twisted a gag in the
Chinaman’s mouth, binding it tightly to the back of his head. His next
move was to bind the feet, tying the hands behind the man’s back.

“There, I guess that will hold him for a while,” muttered Jeff
straightening up and casting a suspicious glance along the passageway.
No one was in sight, though flitting shadows now and then obscured the
faint light. “I must hide him now.”

The next question was, where?

Pulling the curtains aside the detective discovered that the berth
there was empty. But to place his victim on it might mean quick
discovery, and besides, the fellow upon coming to, might roll himself
off and thus bring several people to the scene in a hurry.

“I know, I’ll shove him under the couch,” muttered Jeff. “It will be a
tight fit, but he will be more apt to stay there.” To do this it was
necessary to raise the couch a little, which Jeff did, then pushed his
victim far back underneath it, letting the couch down on him to hold
the fellow in place.

All this had taken little more time than it takes to tell it, for Jeff
made every move count, and he was an adept at this sort of thing. So
skillful was he that he could bind a fighting man almost before the
victim realized what was being done. In this instance, Jeff’s prisoner
sensed nothing at all. The fellow in all probability never had had such
a jolt as the detective’s iron-fist gave him.

“Now for that back room. I may not find anything worth while, but it’s
worth the chance.”

Once more he set himself to the task of opening the lock with his ready
pick, which he had dropped upon discovering the Chinaman behind him.

The lock was a simple one and hence offered little resistance to the
detective’s skill. It was open in a moment. But Jeff did not open the
door at once. Instead he paused with one ear to the keyhole to learn
if the slight noise made by his efforts had aroused any one on the
opposite side of the door. Apparently it had not.

Jeff finally opened the door. A dull light illumined the place, which,
like the apartment he had just left was divided off with curtains and
screens of Chinese make. More attempt at elegance was observable in
this room. Here the pungent odor of the opium layouts penetrated but
faintly, and bad as the air was it was a distinct relief from the other
room.

Once in the place, Jeff softly closed the door behind him and stood
with head slightly inclined forward every sense on the alert.

“There is some one in here,” was his mental conclusion. “But I am
inclined to think they are sleeping, whoever they are. If I can do what
I want to without awakening them, so much the better,” he decided,
moving softly forward after first having dropped his revolvers in his
outside coat pockets.

A cautious examination of several of the curtained apertures disclosed
the fact that they were empty. Half way down, Jeff came upon a
lacquered case of Oriental design, beneath a cot and covered by a lot
of rubbish.

No safer method of secreting valuables could have been found. With
a muttered exclamation of satisfaction Jeff broke the case open,
operating underneath the rubbish with his hands in order that no sound
of his efforts might be heard in the room. The case opened easily. In
it he found money and an assortment of trinkets of Oriental design,
hideous gods, pipes and all manner of trinkets. But that which he
sought was not there.

“Too bad,” muttered Jeff. “I was almost sure I should find it here,
and I may yet. I have not seen all there is in this room by far. But
if they’ll let me alone a moment I shall, and be well out of this
nauseating place. First, I must find out who and what the person I hear
breathing is, before I blunder into any more trouble.”

Then began a systematic examination of the place, a cautious pulling
back of curtains, but all of the apartments were empty, so far as he
had proceeded.

All at once, however, a musical, but troublesome voice demanded in
Chinese to know who was there.

Jeff knew considerable Chinese himself, having for the last three years
been under the instruction of Pong, so that he could manage to make
himself well understood.

“A friend,” he answered in a low voice, standing perfectly still. But
the question had startled him. He had discovered something else in the
voice that set his every faculty on the alert.

“It’s a woman,” he breathed. “And what is more she is a white woman. No
Chinese woman speaks like that. What does it mean? Perhaps I shall find
something more to do here than I had anticipated.”

“I stab if you come near! I kill!” threatened the voice in Chinese once
more.

“Are you alone?” questioned the detective in Chinese.

“No, I am not alone. The dagger that kills--the dagger poisoned by the
seven gods is with me.”

“Be quiet. I seek you not,” answered the detective in the same dialect
that she had employed.

“You die if you do,” answered the musical voice of the girl.

By this time he had located the spot where she was in hiding. He felt
sure that she would not show herself unless she was disturbed, thus
leaving him free to pursue his search. But Jeff did not intend to leave
the place without satisfying himself who and what the girl might be.
That she was fearful of the loathsome creatures about here was evident
from her words.

Jeff went through the place with quickness and dispatch, but his search
developed nothing. He was keenly disappointed. But he was used to this.
It was only another step, and he might have to take many before he had
finally solved the strange mystery that he was at work on.

“I must get a look at her,” he decided, creeping toward the curtains
behind which he was satisfied the girl was hidden.

First he spoke to her from the opposite side of the room, then, as she
was answering he glided to the curtains and peered in at the edges on
the side nearest to the wall.

The woman’s back was turned half toward him. She was listening with
head bent forward. In her right hand the light glinted on a long,
slender dagger.

“A white woman as I thought,” muttered the detective studying her
profile critically. Instead of being clothed in a dress or wrapper he
observed that there was no clothing in the apartment so far as he could
see. The woman herself, a girl somewhere in the twenties, was wrapped
in some Chinese draperies which she had twisted about herself after the
fashion of a Grecian costume.

Jeff observed that she was a very handsome young woman. He determined
to find out who and what she was.

“No, she is not the kind that one would expect to find in this sort of
a brothel,” he decided. “Then the condition of her clothing means that
something out of the ordinary is the case.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” she demanded impatiently, in her
Chinese dialect.

“Madame, I mean you no harm. Please make no outcry. If I can serve you
in any way be good enough to say so,” answered the detective in plain
English, turning his head away to give the effect of speaking from the
opposite side of the room.

The girl half struggled to her feet, uttering a suppressed scream.

“Hush, hush! Do you want to bring them all down on us?”

“Oh God! In God’s name who are you? Is it some torturing dream?”

“It is no dream madam. Will you permit me to join you. I do not wish to
talk at such long range.”

“Yes,” she breathed, and from the tone the detective realized that the
woman was on the verge of a hysterical outbreak.

“First of all calm yourself. If I am to help you you will have to keep
cool.”

“Somehow your voice is good. It seems as if I might trust you. But I
must see your face. Pull the curtains aside and let me look at you, but
I warn you that if you approach any closer I shall kill you. I am not
as defenceless as you might think.”

“I am well aware of that. I know that your right hand holds a dangerous
weapon--a weapon that has served you well and saved you from a terrible
fate thus far.”

“Oh!”

The exclamation was uttered in a sharp voice of surprise.

“Can you thus read without seeing? Come, I would look at you.”

Jeff Clayton parted the curtains and making no effort to enter her
narrow chamber, stood framed in the rich Oriental draperies gazing at
her with a half smile on his face.

For a full minute he stood thus, the woman and the man gazing into each
other’s eyes, she at first with eyes full of suspicious dread. Then a
change slowly spread itself over her face. The hard look in the eyes
softened gradually.

The woman breathed a long sigh, which was broken by a sharp catch in
her voice.

“Wha--what are you here for?”

“I have come for you, if you wish to go with me. Madam I take it that
you are here against your will. If such be the case I offer you my
services if you can find it in your heart to trust me.”

“Oh, I do trust you. I know that you are my savior. Thank God! Thank
God!” she cried starting to her feet and thrusting both hands toward
him, the sharp-pointed dagger falling to the floor with a metallic
clatter.




CHAPTER XIV.

FACING THE YELLOW PERIL.


“May I ask your name?”

“Margaret Kershaw. I am known here as Bow Kum. That is the name these
fiends have given me.”

“How did you get here?”

“I was brought here. How, I do not know.”

“Can you tell me under what circumstances?”

“I can only tell you where I came from. I was the companion--the paid
companion, you will understand of Miss Myra Hammond.”

“That is the family in which they have had several strange deaths, is
it not?” questioned the detective, putting down with an effort the
exultation that well nigh got the better of his judgment.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I have heard of it. Go on.”

“I had been driving with Miss Hammond and we were returning home when,
deciding that she would stop to make a brief call on a personal friend
she bade me drive on and she would walk home as the distance was
short--”

“What time of the day was that?”

“Late in the evening.”

“How late?”

“I should say about nine o’clock.”

“Yes, go on.”

“Miss Hammond had bade the driver start on and I had just reached out
to pull the door shut, when a human form suddenly tumbled into the
carriage. It was more like a rubber ball than anything else that I can
describe. Before I could make an outcry or an effort to defend myself,
something was thrust into my face and I instantly lost consciousness.”

“What next?”

“I--I don’t know, sir. How I ever was removed from the carriage I have
not the slightest idea. Of course I could not have been in the carriage
when it reached home else I should have been rescued, as the coachman
is an old family servant. They must have been surprised when I was
found missing and did not return.”

“Was that before or after the death of Miss Hammond’s sister?”

“About a week after.”

“Then you have been here more than a week?”

“About ten days as near as I can figure it.”

Jeff nodded as if to affirm the correctness of her assertion.

“Curious they did not mention it to me.”

“What do you say?”

“I was thinking out loud. What is the first recollection you have of
what happened after your experience in the carriage?”

“I awakened here.”

“Alone?”

“No.

“Ah! Please do not misunderstand me, sir. I have had a most fortunate
escape. God has, of a truth, been good to me. That monster Hah Gat was
in the room, standing almost where you are standing at this moment. He
was grinning from ear to ear. It was horrible.”

“That reminds me. How is it that you speak Chinese so well.”

“Perhaps for the same reason that you do. I was taught. I beg your
pardon. I did not intend to appear rude. My father was an interpreter.
At one time he spent several years in China. Reverses came upon us and
he became a court interpreter. I quickly picked up the language and
have acted for him on occasions. I learned languages very easily and
speak several more or less fluently.”

“Your Chinese is excellent. Do these men--does this Hah Gat know that
you speak his dialect?”

“He does now. He did not at first. I pretended not to understand in
order that I might find out if possible what his purpose was.”

“Did you?”

“Enough of it. My clothes had been taken away, as perhaps you may have
observed and I was forced to wrap myself in these flimsy garments. Hah
Gat proposed to make me his white slave.”

“Not his wife?”

“He knew that I would never consent to that.”

“Did you draw from his conversation that that was his purpose in
kidnapping you?”

“From what I heard between he and Long Shong--”

“Who is he?” interrupted Jeff.

“Another unspeakable Oriental. He is the tallest, most brutal monster
outside of Hah Gat, that ever has been my misfortune to see.”

“Ah, that must be the fellow who tried to knock me out.”

“You don’t mean that he discovered your presence here?”

“Yes.”

“Then we are lost. They will kill you,” moaned the girl.

“Don’t worry. We are in no immediate danger. Mr. Long Shong is at this
minute tied up and knocked out under a cot in the adjoining room. He’ll
stay there for a while I am thinking. And your other friend Mr. Hah Gat
is doling out little pills to his customers. Business is brisk tonight.
I think we are safe for a time yet. What was it you heard Long Shong
and Hah Gat discussing, that you were about to tell me?”

“I took from their conversation that they thought I was somebody else
when they stole me.”

“Who?”

“That I do not know. But I think they would have killed me had I been
the right person. Instead I seemed to please Hah Gat, and as I told you
he proposed to make me his white slave. It was terrible, believe me.”

“I can well imagine it,” answered Jeff absently. His face was sober and
his mind was running rapidly over the fragmentary facts that she had
given him. That there was more beyond it--matters of vital import to
him in his strange quest, he was thoroughly convinced.

“You have not told me what happened after you awakened from your
drugged sleep. Tell me everything. Did the beast assault you?”

“No, thank God,” answered Miss Kershaw a dull red showing at her
temples and on her forehead. “He tried to make love to me. Knowing
the Chinese and their ways as I did, I knew pretty well how to defend
myself.”

“Yes?”

“I made no resistance until the brute got near enough to me so that I
could reach him.”

“And then?”

“I thrust my hand under his blouse and jerked out his knife. Before he
could divine my purpose I had jabbed him with it. I’m sorry I did not
kill him, but I gave him a cut that he will remember for a long time, I
guess.”

“What did he do?”

“Jumped back and yelled.”

Jeff laughed softly.

“Served the fiend right.”

“Only not half enough.”

“Well, since that time I have had to be on my guard day and night.
After a while Hah Gat discovered that I talked his lingo, then he was
more persistent than ever. Occasionally he would send in some of his
henchmen in an effort to catch me asleep and overpower me. Some of them
have felt the sting of the dagger. Now you couldn’t get them to come
near me.”

“What do they use this room for?”

“Some of the Tong members met here until Hah discovered that I could
understand the language. Since then they have not had a general meeting
here. The men come in in twos and threes now and then and discuss
matters, but they always talk in such low tones now that I am unable to
overhear them. Two of them were here less than an hour ago.”

“Yes, I saw them come in.”

“Were you here then?”

“Not in this room. I was out in the opium joint.”

“That terrible place,” murmured the girl with a shudder.

“Yes, it certainly is the limit.”

“But who are you?” questioned Miss Kershaw suddenly. “You have not told
me and here I am talking with you as if I had always known you. Will
you tell me your name?” she asked half suspiciously.

“It is your privilege to ask that, Madame. I am a detective.”

“I thought as much.”

“My name is Jefferson Clayton.”

“Oh, I know you, I know you. I have heard of you many, many times. But
this is a terrible place for you to be in, Mr. Clayton. They will kill
you if they discover who you are--they will kill you if they find you
in this room. No, you cannot take me away. They will never permit it. I
knew it could not be possible. I--”

“Madam, if they kill me it will be after some of those yellow devils
themselves have gone to join their city of hideous gods. I am going to
take you out of this place if you will do exactly as I ask you to--”

“Oh, I will, I will. You do not need to ask that. You should know that
I will--that I will do anything to be out of this awful place--this
purgatory of torment.”

“Yes, I am sure of that. I shall ask you to go with me to my home. You
will be placed in the care of my housekeeper until the case on which I
am at work has been closed up. Then you will be free to go where you
please. Believe me, it will be best for you to do this. I want you and
feel sure that you can be of no little service to me. At the same time
you will be serving your mistress.”

“My mistress?” asked the girl with a puzzled look on her face.

“Yes. I am engaged in seeking out the murderers of her sister.”

“Murderers?”

“She was murdered. Many others shared the same fate and for the same
reason. You have no idea why?”

“Indeed, I have not. This is terrible.”

“More so than you can even dream. I--”

Jeff paused suddenly, standing in a listening attitude.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“I think some one is coming.”

“Hide, hide! They will kill you!”

“I think perhaps it might be a good idea. Ordinarily I should prefer to
face them, but desiring to save you, caution will be the better part of
valor.”

All at once Jeff sprang lightly into the curtained enclosure where the
girl was. There was no time for him to seek a hiding place in another
part of the room.

The door leading to the opium joint had opened almost noiselessly. But
cautiously as it had been, the detective’s keen ears had caught the
sound, and his quick eyes observed it being slowly pushed inward. He
had leaped into Miss Kershaw’s apartment just in time to prevent being
seen. But the instant he was in he steadied the curtains with one hand
so that no movement might be visible to the suspicious eyes of the
Oriental who was at that moment entering.

“Here, here!” whispered the girl, pointing to the blankets and cushions
about her. “Hide yourself.”

Jeff nodded and throwing himself down, crawled beneath the draperies,
Miss Kershaw quickly piling the cushions over him, then calmly
stretching herself upon them. When a moment later a pair of evil, slant
eyes peered in through the curtains, the woman apparently was asleep.

Wider and wider parted the curtains until the head of Hah Gat protruded
through the opening.

One foot was cautiously thrust in, followed by the other.

At that moment the girl opened her eyes.




CHAPTER XV.

THE DRAGON AROUSED.


“What do you want?”

The question was asked in Chinese, but the girl did not change her
position. One hand was hidden in the folds of her draperies and Hah Gat
knew full well that the hand held a knife. He had felt its prick before
and knew that the keen-pointed blade was waiting for him now if he
transgressed the laws she had surrounded herself with.

“Hah would gaze upon The Pearl of Great Price,” leered the Chinaman.

“Gaze and get out. Draw back those feet. Stand where you belong, you
son of the darkened moon, else you shall feel the sting of the dagger.”

Hah withdrew hastily, but stood drinking in the beauty of the girl with
evil avaricious eyes.

“Well, have you done? I want none of you. Go!” she commanded suddenly
straightening up.

Hah hastily withdrew muttering and chattering.

“I go, but I come again,” the detective heard him say.

“If you do you’ll get a thump on the head that will make you see many
stars,” growled the detective under his breath. “I have trifled enough.
Now for action.”

They heard the door close softly. Miss Kershaw was about to speak when
she felt a sudden pressure on her arm.

“What is it?” she whispered, placing her lips close to the pile of
draperies.

“He is there yet. Drive him out.”

The girl rose to her feet and sprang to the corridor. There his
grinning face encompassing her, stood Hah Gat, less than ten feet away.

With a cry of rage the girl flew at him, dagger in hand, angered beyond
endurance.

Hah fled like a frightened child slamming the door behind him and
turning a key in the lock.

Jeff was sitting up shaking with laughter when she returned.

“I’d hate to have you look upon me in that way. I shouldn’t consider
that my life was worth twenty cents. Are you ready to go?”

“Need you ask? But how do you expect to accomplish it? You cannot
rescue me because there is only one way to get out of this place. That
is through the room beyond. We should both be killed were we to try it.”

Jeff did not answer at once. He was thinking.

“I think we shall find a way,” he answered rising slowly. “I am going
into the other room to see if I can find some clothes for you. Remain
quietly where you are and I promise you that no harm shall come to you.”

“What are you going to do? Oh, do be careful, I beg of you,” she
pleaded.

“I shall. Have no fear about that. Of course I shall have to take some
risks. Both of us will, but you shall be rescued no matter at what a
cost to myself. I have no fears of those devils. I know them and their
ways and if they interfere with me they will find themselves up against
a tougher game than they have bargained for. I will be away only a few
minutes.”

With her eyes following him the detective slipped along the corridor
to the door where he listened a moment, then tried the knob. Hah had
locked the door after him, as Jeff expected that he had done. But it
was the work of only a minute to pick the lock.

The detective opened the door a crack, gazing out along the smoky
corridor. Finding all to his satisfaction he stepped into the opium
room pulling the door softly to behind him. So quietly had the
detective moved thus far that he had attracted no attention at all, but
once more the figure of Hah Gat was discovered conveying pills to his
patients. Jeff had no time to dodge into a berth so he stood still, not
moving a muscle. Fortunately the Chinaman did not see him, as, at that
long range Jeff could not have prevented an outcry which would have
alarmed all who were wide enough awake to hear it.

Hah Gat soon returned to the front. At once Jeff dived behind the
curtains of the compartment where he had left Long Shong tied up under
the cot.

Long was still there, but fully conscious. Without giving the least
heed to the look of murderous rage in Long’s eyes the detective hauled
him from his hiding place and laid him on the cot.

“You make a noise and you get this as far as it will go,” warned the
detective, searching out Long’s wicked looking knife and transferring
it to his own clothes.

This done he proceeded to strip off Long’s blouse. To do this he was
obliged to untie the Chinaman’s hands. A crafty look sprang into the
slant eyes when he discovered what his tormentor was up to. But his
triumph was short lived. Long made a mighty spring the instant his
hands were free, but it proved without avail. Jeff Clayton expecting
just this move, was ready for him, and Long Shong got another jolt on
the point of his jaw that sent him reeling back where he lay without
evincing the slightest interest in life.

“I hate to hit a man when he’s down, but the situation justifies the
treatment. Unless I guess wrong he will not be the only one that will
feel the strength of Jeff Clayton’s punch tonight. Perhaps I’ll get a
touch of theirs at the same time.”

Now that Shong was asleep the detective’s work was much facilitated.

Following the removal of his blouse, the Chinaman’s feet were liberated
and his long baggy trousers removed, then the legs were bound together
again, and in such a manner that they would not be untied in a hurry.
After this, Jeff removed the fellow’s shoes, doing the whole up into a
bundle, to which was added the sombrero-like hat.

“Now for the next scene,” he muttered peering out into the corridor.

Fortunately the coast was still clear and Jeff lost no time in
skulking back to the door of the rear room and entering.

Miss Kershaw’s anxious face was peering from between the curtains of
her compartment.

“Thank God you’ve come. This has been the most wretched few moments
I have spent in all my life, not excepting the time when I first
discovered that I was a prisoner here.”

“Why?” laughed Jeff.

“I thought something had happened to you.”

“No, I was merely putting a particular friend of yours to bed.”

“Who do you mean?”

“Long Shong.”

“Ugh!”

“He is sleeping as soundly as a baby with a bottle of milk in its
stomach,” smiled Jeff.

“You did something to him?” she questioned.

“Only a little love tap on the point of his jaw. One of the best
remedies I know of for sleeplessness,” smiled the detective.

Miss Kershaw’s face broke out into a ripple of silent laughter.

“You are a most remarkable man,” she breathed.

“We will discuss that afterwards. I have something for you here.”

“What is it?”

“Something that you may shrink from, but I am sure you will not object.”

“You may be sure that I shall not. I will do whatever you may ask me
to, no matter how difficult the task.”

“It remains to be seen how difficult this particular task will be,”
answered the detective with a quizzical smile. “You asked what this
was,” he continued, beginning to unroll the bundle while she drew near
curiously gazing at the mysterious bundle.

“This is a suit of clothes that I just removed from our surly friend
Long Shong. He did not seem particularly well pleased with my plan
either, but that doesn’t hurt the clothes any.”

“What are you going to do with them, Mr. Clayton?”

“Me? I’m not going to do anything with them save spread them out here
on the floor.”

The girl looked puzzled.

“But you are.”

“You mean?”

“That I want you to discard the draperies that you now have on and get
yourself into this suit of Shong’s. After that is done I’ll change your
looks a little.

“Don’t be afraid,” he reassured her. “I will withdraw of course, while
you are making the change. If any one comes in you can rest assured
that I shall not permit you to be disturbed, even if I have to shoot
them to prevent it. You don’t mind putting them on, do you?”

“I mind nothing that you ask of me. I begin to see your plan. But
have you any idea that we shall be able to deceive them?” she asked
hesitatingly.

“Not for long. Perhaps long enough for our purpose. Now make the change
as quickly as possible. Put the shoes on too, and as soon as you are
ready, call to me.”

Jeff discreetly withdrew, pulling the curtains close as he did so. Then
he slipped across the aisle, secreting himself behind the curtains of
another curtained apartment where he could command a view leading to
the door of the opium joint.

He did not believe they would be interrupted, but while he was waiting
he laid his plans carefully for their future movements. Had he been
alone he would have resorted to no subterfuges, but in this instance
he had a woman to consider. He knew full well that rather than permit
her to escape his clutches Hah Gat would drive a knife into the girl’s
heart. But Jeff Clayton did not propose that any such act should be
permitted.

“Mr. Clayton.”

“Yes.” She had called softly to him so that her voice scarcely reached
him.

“I think I am all ready now.”

“Then, I may come in?”

“Yes.”

Jeff hastened across the corridor and as he parted the curtains he
could not repress a slight exclamation of enthusiasm.

“Will I do?” asked the blushing young woman.

“I should say you will. Fine, fine! I couldn’t do better myself, and I
am something of an expert at disguises. If that doesn’t fool Hah Gat,
I’ll miss my guess. Only an unfamiliar action on your part will enable
him to discover that you are not what you seem.”

She glowed under his approving words.

“Thank you.”

“If you will permit me, however, I think I will darken your face a
little. It is altogether too fair for a Chinaman, especially when you
blush as you are doing now,” smiled Jeff, which remark did not tend to
lessen the blushes.

Taking a pigment from his pocket he stood her under the light of the
hanging lamp, and in a very business-like way, proceeded to deftly
touch up the girl’s face here and there, placing a wrinkle here,
another there, so completely changing her expression that it is
doubtful if even Miss Hammond would have recognized her.

“Take a look,” said Jeff, thrusting a small mirror before her.

Miss Kershaw gasped.

“Wonderful. It is simply unbelievable. Why, an actor could not do it as
well.”

Jeff bowed over the doubtful compliment.

“I do not think it will be necessary to change your hands any. You will
keep them under your blouse. Do not withdraw them unless to defend
yourself. Have you the dagger?”

“Oh, yes. I shan’t let go of that as long as I am in this awful place.
Afterwards if I ever get out, I think I shall keep it as a sort of
souvenir of my experiences.”

“You will get out. And now I want you to pay close heed to what I am
about to say.”

“Yes.”

“All depends upon keeping cool. We will leave this room together. When
we get in the smoking room I shall let you precede me a little, and
choosing a moment, if possible, when Hah Gat’s attention is attracted
in another direction, you will slip out of the door into a hallway
where you will wait for me. Do you know the way out?”

“No. You must remember that I have never been out of this room since I
came to my senses after being drugged in the carriage.”

“It’s all right. There is only one door. You cannot miss it. Under no
circumstances, speak a word unless you have to. In that case lower your
voice and make it sound as much like a Chinaman’s as possible. We will
start now. Put your hat on and tuck your hair up under it.”

“In case anything happens--if we should be discovered--”

“I will endeavor to hold the gang at bay in that event. And if such a
contingency should occur, get out of the door as quickly as possible.
After passing through this first door you will find a long hall. At the
end of it is a stairway, and at the top of this, a door guarded by a
sentinel. Give him the knife, open the door which will lead you through
another hallway into a court that opens up on to a street. Now I think
you understand the situation so there can be no slip up.”

“I hope so.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Jeff threw open the door and pushed his companion out.




CHAPTER XVI.

IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY.


“That girl has the pluck,” mused the detective approvingly as
Miss Kershaw took her way down the aisle of the smoking room as
unconcernedly as if no peril had been waiting for her beyond the dingy
curtain there. Even in her walk he observed that she had assumed the
character of a Chinaman, with both hands tucked neatly in the long
flowing sleeves of the blouse.

“They’ll find those hands have sharp nails if they attempt to try any
tricks,” he chuckled.

Jeff now started to follow her, timing his start so that he should
reach the curtain at about the time she passed around it. Reaching that
point he peered sharply through before venturing to show himself in the
light, and as he did so he saw the girl walking steadily toward the
door, Hah Gat’s back at that moment chancing to be turned toward her,
as he extracted some pills from the box where the precious drug was
kept.

But his sharp ears caught the sound of her footsteps, light as they
were. The Chinaman turned sharply. At that second as it chanced Miss
Kershaw had half turned her head to see what Hah was about. As she did
so, the clumsy shoe, which she was unused to, caught in a rug. The girl
stumbled. She uttered a sharp exclamation in her own natural voice,
at the same time throwing out her own white, bejeweled hands to save
herself.

Hah Gat heard and understood. And too, Hah Gat’s sharp eyes saw the
white, glistening hands which never belonged to a Chinaman.

With a growl like that of a wild beast he leaped forward stretching out
a long bony hand for the now thoroughly frightened girl.

At that instant Jeff Clayton projected himself into the apartment like
an avenging nemesis.

Hah Gat heard him coming and wheeled sharply, one hand at that instant
closing over the girl’s shoulder. But when he discovered the figure
of the detective bearing down on him the Chinaman quickly released
Miss Kershaw. His hand disappeared under his blouse, reappearing in a
twinkling grasping a knife.

“Run. You know the way!” shouted Jeff.

The girl without an instant’s hesitation started like a frightened deer.

“Don’t forget the man at the top!”

Smash!

Jeff Clayton’s fist landed on Hah Gat’s nose, bringing from that
unfortunate member a spurt of blood that struck the detective squarely
in his own face.

But the reach had been too long a one to make the detective’s blow as
effective as he had intended. The Chinaman staggered back a few feet
then hurled himself upon his antagonist with a peculiar cry as of
challenge. Jeff did not know the meaning of the cry, but interpreted it
as the Chinaman’s call to battle.

It was, only it was intended as a summons to his companions to come to
his aid.

For a few moments the antagonists staggered back and forth, Hah seeking
desperately to bring his right hand into position where he could drive
the point of the knife into the body of the detective.

This, Jeff did not propose to permit him to do. But the Chinaman was
no match for Jeff Clayton. Few men were, even athletes trained to the
finest point.

All at once Hah Gat was thrown heavily to the floor, the plucky
detective landing on the body of his fallen antagonist with such force
as to knock nearly all the breath out of Hah.

A smashing blow in the face put a finish to Jeff Clayton’s work for the
moment. But so engrossed had he been in this battle that he had failed
to notice three figures approaching him from the open door through
which Miss Kershaw had disappeared only a few moments before.

The slant eyes of the newcomers held a murderous light. One had drawn
a knife and seemed about to throw himself upon the detective who was
delivering the blow to the prostrate Chinaman. One of the newcomer’s
companions grabbed his hand. The third man raised a heavy chair aloft.
At that instant Jeff, his subconscious self warning him of some peril
behind him, turned, and started to scramble to his feet.

But he was not quick enough. The chair was brought down on top of his
head with tremendous force. Jeff sank back on the floor with a moan,
the blood spurting from mouth and nose.

A perfect volley of chattering followed the cruel blow, and two of the
men fell upon him, holding him down while the third hastily procured a
piece of rope. With this they bound the unconscious detective’s feet
and hands. After some more chattering, Jeff was grabbed by the feet
and quickly dragged behind the curtain, down the aisle and thrown
bodily into one of the curtained compartments.

This done the three men walked slowly back to the front chattering like
a lot of magpies. Their next effort was directed toward resuscitating
their fallen companion.

In the meantime Miss Kershaw had succeeded in reaching the open court.
She had missed the guard at the top of the stairs by the narrowest
margin. Just as she was about to ascend the flight she heard Hah’s
call for help and knew what it meant, then came the clatter of the
guard rapidly descending the stairs. The girl hid herself beneath the
steps until the sentinel had rushed by her, after which she ran up the
stairs, and following Jeff’s directions had no difficulty in finding
her way out.

But once in the street, she waited, hoping against hope that her
rescuer might join her. But Jeff did not come. He was lying unconscious
and bound on an opium cot in Hah Gat’s dive far below the street.

When Jeff finally opened his eyes he could not think for the moment,
what had happened to him. Then it all came back with a rush. He had
been knocked out.

He could hear a subdued chattering at the other end of the room, but
because of the distance, was unable to make out what was being said. He
felt sure, however, that he was the subject of the discussion.

“I guess they’re holding a pow-wow to determine what they shall do
with me. It’ll probably be the knife for mine. But we shall see.”

With that he began a methodical effort to free himself of his bonds.
This, he soon found himself unable to do. The Chinamen had done a
thoroughly good job when they tied him up.

“I guess it is no use,” decided the detective. “I shall have to wait
and trust to luck. But I don’t think they will do anything with me
until the place has settled down so there will be no danger of their
being interrupted or observed. That gives me a little longer to decide
on what I had best do.”

He was not in the least disturbed, though knowing full well that he
never would be permitted to leave the den alive if the slant-eyed
heathens were allowed to have their way. But Jeff had been in positions
every bit as desperate, many times before, and he had gotten out of
them.

All at once the detective in struggling at his bonds, made a discovery.
He could have shouted with glee. But no sooner had this discovery
come, than he made another that was not quite so pleasing. A skulking
Chinaman had parted the curtains and was looking down on him with evil
eyes. Jeff caught a glint of light on a knife blade, held in the hand
that was drawing the curtains back.

“So, he’s going to stick me up is he? Well I guess not,” muttered the
prisoner.

Cautiously the Chinaman stepped into the enclosure, and was about to
let the curtain drop behind him while he performed his murderous task
when something occurred.

“Boo!” exploded the detective.

The Celestial leaped out into the corridor with an exclamation of
fright, while Jeff Clayton’s sides shook with laughter.

A violent chattering soon followed this, and after a little he was
conscious that at least three men were creeping near his prison.

“Here’s where I surprise them again,” grinned the detective. And he
did. Once more the curtains were parted and three pairs of eyes glared
down on to his cot.

“See here, you fellows,” announced Jeff in their own language. “The
first one of you who gets funny will get his eternal head blown off, do
you hear?”

They did. The subject called for more chattering after they had
withdrawn half way down the corridor. In a moment he heard the three
running. He could tell they were running, by the almost noiseless
scrape of their feet on the floor.

They burst into his room each with a knife raised above his head and
were about to throw themselves upon the prostrate man, when they were
treated to the surprise of their lives.

There were two distinct flashes. Two knives fell to the floor with a
loud clatter, while two Chinamen howled with fear and pain. These with
the third one, tumbled pell-mell from the compartment, falling in a
heap in the corridor, where they scrambled, snarling and shrieking.

“I guess they won’t be bothering me any more tonight,” grinned Jeff. In
working his hands about he had found that he was able to reach both of
his revolvers. Then Jeff Clayton knew that he was saved for the time
being at least, though fully aware that he might shoot until he was
grey-haired without the sound of his shots reaching the street.

He had shot twice, and handicapped as he was had sent a bullet through
the knife hand of two of his would-be murderers. The third had ducked
so quickly that Jeff did not care to chance a shot at the fellow,
fearing he might kill him. This he did not wish to do, for he never
took human life unless it were a case of certain death to himself if he
did not.

He always declared that no good detective shot to kill until the last
thread hung between himself and Kingdom Come. And he followed this
religiously in his profession.

He could hear the groans of the wounded Chinamen out in front. After a
little he discovered that there were only two men there, the two whom
he had shot. The third man had gone. And Jeff knew that either the
fellow had gone back to guard the door or else had been sent out for
help. He was inclined to the latter belief.

All at once, however, he heard a third voice, and then a little later
he sensed the approach of footsteps. Out in front the two men were
still waiting and chattering.

“S-h-h-h!”

It was more a hiss than a warning, and Jeff pricked up his ears sharply.

“Who’s there?” he answered scarcely above a whisper. “Answer or I
shoot.”

“Mlister Clayton muchee fool.”

“I agree with you whoever you are.”

“No shootee, lette you go.”

“Sure, but no monkey business--no knives, just untie these things with
your hands.”

Even then, Jeff suspected that it was a ruse to drive a knife into him
so he held his gun in readiness and bade the fellow hold up his empty
hands until he had reached the side of the cot.

“Now go to it,” commanded Jeff, pressing the muzzle of a six shooter
against the abdomen of his friend in need. “I don’t know who you are
but you can count on Jeff Clayton, even if you are a heathen,” breathed
the detective.

Skillful fingers quickly undid his bonds and in a moment Jeff stood
forth a free man once more--that is free in that his hands and feet
were released.

“You stay here,” directed his rescuer in Chinese. “I go out and make
noise just like I find you and you shoot me. Sabe?”

“I sabe,” grinned Jeff. “You want to save your own hide, that’s your
game. Well, you’re entitled to all the consideration I have in me and
you’ll get it.”

All at once his rescuer uttered a loud shriek and ran wildly for the
front of the place, swinging his arms and howling for help.

The detective, quick of wit, saw the ruse. Quick as a flash he fired
his revolver into the floor and sprang after the man who had released
him. Jeff burst into the lighted chamber like a tornado. There, the two
wounded Chinamen were cowering in abject terror, while before him with
every evidence of fear on his face stood Pong, Jeff Clayton’s Chinese
servant.

The detective could scarcely repress an exclamation. He saw it all now.
Pong had rescued him.

“You yellow devil!” thundered the detective. “So you thought you would
put a knife into me like these other fiends sought to do, did you. Die,
you dog!”

Jeff Clayton fired almost point blank at his servant, but with such
well directed aim that the bullet passed between Pong’s left arm and
his side, burying itself in the wall.

With a howl of terror Pong dashed through the door and disappeared,
while Jeff sending a volley into the floor at the feet of the two
wounded men, dashed out, throwing his flash-light ahead of him to light
the way to the staircase and so on out to the street.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY.


An hour later Jeff Clayton was eyeing the stolid-faced Pong across the
desk in his private office.

“You saved my life, young man. But there is one thing that strikes me
as peculiar.”

“Lles.”

“It occurs to me that you exhibited altogether too great a familiarity
with that opium joint and Tong hang out, for the innocent Chinaman that
you would have me to believe you.”

Pong gave back a steady gaze.

“Ever been there before, Pong?”

“No.”

“You’re a cheerful liar. You may go now. Send Miss Kershaw in.”

The young woman, becoming alarmed at Jeff’s long absence, had hurried
to a place where she could get a telephone and there looked up Jeff’s
house and telephone number. Calling the house, Pong was the only one at
home and to him she confided the predicament of the man who had saved
her from a fate worse than death. Pong understood readily enough and he
hastened with all speed to Hah Gat’s place, where he was well known,
with the result already related.

In the meantime Miss Kershaw had gone to the detective’s home as he
had directed, and there, making herself known to the housekeeper and
acquainting her with the occurrences of the night, at least so far as
the young woman’s experiences went, had been made welcome and given a
suit to replace the costume that was so hideous to her.

It now lacked but a few hours of the morning, but matters were drawing
to a head too rapidly for either Jeff or his assistants to think of
sleep.

Harper and Snoopy came in shortly after Jeff did, and with them they
brought tidings of a successful investigation.

They with the young woman, entered Jeff’s studio, at the same time.

Before saying what he had to say to them, Jeff called up the First
Precinct.

“Hello, this sergeant Bates?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is Jeff Clayton. I wish you would send a squad to No. --
Doyer street. You will find two wounded Chinamen there, unless they
have got away in the meantime. It’s Hah Gat’s place,” and Jeff directed
the sergeant how to get into the underground lair. “About half way back
you will find a Chinaman bound and gagged under a cot, unless they have
got him out in the meantime. Yes, that’s it.”

The others were listening with breathless interest as Jeff spoke.

“The fellow will be there all right. His name is Long Shong. I want you
to arrest him for murder. Hold him if possible until you hear from me.
It may be another twenty-four hours before I shall be ready to produce
my facts. But hold the man at all costs. Thank you.”

Jeff hung up the receiver.

“For murder?” questioned Harper Gordon in amazement.

“Yes, he evidently is the fellow who has been doing this red dragon
business.”

“What makes you think so?” demanded Snoopy Havens.

Jeff drew from his pocket a package which he placed on the table before
them and opened leisurely.

“The green jade god,” exclaimed the two assistants in one voice.

“Yes, but that is not all.”

“Where did you get it?”

“In Long Shong’s pocket. If you will observe this god closely you will
discover something peculiar about it, but be careful how you handle the
thing. It’s deadly.”

“How?”

“Because it’s the red dragon itself.”

Jeff’s assistants looked their amazement, but still they did not
understand.

“See, this cap on the bottom comes off. If you will look closely you
will notice several small irregular slits. These form the outlines of a
dragon.”

“Yes, I can make that out now,” cried Harper.

“In those slits,” continued Jeff, “are as many keen-pointed knives. If
you will watch me you will see how it works. It is constructed on the
principal of a doctor’s old-fashioned cupping instrument with which
they used to bleed their patients.”

The detective placed a piece of white paper on the desk in front of him
and on this stood the green jade god. He exerted a gentle pressure on
the head of the hideous god, held it down for the fraction of a minute,
then released the pressure.

“If the experiment has been as successful as I hope, you will observe
something,” announced Jeff, carefully lifting the little god.

“Holy smoke!” ejaculated Snoopy Havens. “If there ain’t the red dragon
itself.”

Sure enough the outlines of the red dragon as it had been impressed on
the arms of so many victims was before them.

“Don’t touch the stuff. It is deadly poison.”

“Do you know what it is, Chief?”

“Yes, it is a Japanese poison--formerly unknown in this country. But
of that, more later. At present we have other things to engage our
attention. Harper, I wish you to go to the Japanese Consul’s office at
opening time. You remember the Jap who called himself Matsui, who was
here yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Arrest him on the charge of murder and turn him over to the police.”

“Geewhiliken. You make my head whirl,” exclaimed Snoopy. “It’s worse’n
a merry-go-round.”

“And Snoopy, go down to Doyer street. Get a policeman and see if you
can find Hah Gat. He’s got a hole through his hand. Arrest and lock him
up.”

Jeff was interrupted in his rapid words by the tinkle of the telephone
bell. He answered it, listening intently to what was said.

“Good, sergeant. I was just going to send a man down for the rest of
them. Hold them all. You’ve got enough on them to hold the whole bunch
without any other evidence, but I’ll have enough for you by late in the
day. Thank you, good bye. Snoopy, you needn’t go. They’ve got Shong and
they have pulled the joint, layouts and all.”

“Do you really think you have the murderer or murderers of the Delano
and Hammond families?” questioned Harper Gordon, scarcely able to
believe that Jeff had worked out this case.

“I not only think, I know.”

“But will you be able to fasten it upon them?”

“I think so,” replied the detective with a quiet smile.

“But why did these Chinks want to take so many lives? That’s what
bothers me--what’s the motive?”

“They weren’t particular about it one way or another. What they did
they did for pay. The whole Tong was engaged in the work for which they
were to receive a large sum of money.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“I think Miss Kershaw can answer that question,” answered Jeff with a
quiet smile.

“Yes, I learned from their conversation that they were to make way with
some person or persons, but I did not know who or why. Did you hear
anything which gave you a clue to that, Mr. Clayton?” she questioned,
turning to Jeff.

“Yes, my dear young woman. I already knew in my own mind what the plan
was. What I overheard last night simply confirmed me in the theory I
had formed. But I still have some investigations to make. I am strongly
in hopes that I may be able to produce the motive in more tangible form
than a theory and with that in view I wish you would call up Walter
Delano, Harper.”

“What am I to tell him?”

“Ask him if I may call on him at daylight. Telephone to the Hammonds
also. I should like to go there at once. They will not mind losing some
sleep, I guess, under the circumstances.”

“My, you’re a whirlwind,” laughed Harper Gordon.

“And, while you are about it you might call the Chief at Philadelphia.
Ask him to be here with the representative members of the families in
which these crimes were committed, at four o’clock this afternoon.”

“Here at our house?”

Jeff reflected for a moment.

“No, I think not. I will invite them to the Delano house. That will be
better and Walter will not object, I am sure.”

Harper did as his chief had directed, quickly making the desired
arrangements with the Philadelphia Chief as well as the Delano and
Hammond families. While this was being done Jeff turned to Miss Kershaw.

“This whole case now depends upon one point. I am certain that this
will be developed, so much so in fact that you see I have invited the
parties to gather to be questioned about it. I want you to set your
mind at work. Run over subconsciously the things you have heard those
Chinamen talk about. See if you cannot fix upon some one object that
they have discussed and in which they seemed to be most interested in.
Did you ever try to hypnotize yourself?”

“I don’t know that I ever did,” smiled the girl.

“Try it now. Concentrate your mind, but don’t think of anything. Just
one word is all I want. It is something you have heard these men
mention. The rest of you please leave the room.”

When they were alone Jeff shoved a sheet of paper and lead pencil
toward the young woman. Leaning toward her across the desk he fixed his
steady eyes upon her.

“Think!” he said in a low tense voice.

Slowly Miss Kershaw’s eyelids fluttered shut. Her face grew
marble-like, all the color leaving the fresh red lips, while her
features drew into sharp lines as if she were sorely perplexed about
something.

Jeff spoke no other word, nor did the girl. She seemed to be past all
power of speech--as if that faculty had left her entirely.

It was a strange and new experience, and it was as well a new
experience for Jeff Clayton. If it succeeded it would be one case in
a thousand, but being guided wholly by his marvelous impressions, he
believed the girl before him, unknown to herself, held the key to the
mystery.

Finally there was slight movement of the hand that held the pencil,
followed by a twitching of the fingers. The pencil began slowly to move
over the paper, giving off a faint scratching sound.

Jeff never removed his eyes from her face, but with his great will
power and mental control he did not allow a thought to enter his
own mind. He was dominating hers with his own a blank, so that any
impressions she might get might not be suggested by his own mind.

The writing continued. There was more than one word. Her subconscious
mind was far away. She was passing through other scenes, as might be
judged from the agonized expression of her face.

All at once the pencil dropped from her hand and a shudder as if from a
sudden chill, ran over the young woman’s frame.

Jeff stretched forth a hand and snatched the paper from beneath her
listless hand.

Five almost undecipherable words were scrawled on it. He made them out
with difficulty. But when finally Jeff had transcribed them to his own
satisfaction--when he fully understood their meaning, he sprang to his
feet with a sudden exclamation.

Miss Kershaw opened her eyes wonderingly.

“What is it?” she said with a wan smile.

“We’ve got it! We’ve got it!” he said controlling his delight. “It is
you who have furnished the key.”

“I? What have I done?”

“You have solved the mystery.”

“You mean you have, Mr. Clayton. If I have aided in any way, I am glad.”

“You have indeed. And now for business. You lie down and take a long
rest. I shall not need you until four o’clock. I trust you feel no ill
effects from your trance?”

“Did I go into a trance?” she questioned in surprise.

“Well, something of that sort,” smiled Jeff.

Jeff bade her good morning, and throwing on his street coat, he hurried
out to the street where his motor car was awaiting him.

“Fifty Seventh street,” he directed, springing into the motor, and
was whirled away up town to put the finishing touches on this most
remarkable case.




CHAPTER XVIII.

CONCLUSION.


Jeff had put in an active forenoon. For four hours he and Walter Delano
had been engaged in earnest conversation, after which the two men
repaired to the dark, musty garret of the Delano mansion where they
rummaged about among old trunks, foreign looking boxes, strong boxes
and almost all manner of truck collected from the four quarters of the
globe.

An hour later Jeff proceeded hurriedly to the Hammond mansion where he
had a long interview with the family there.

He had forgotten that he had not eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. But
even had he remembered it, it would have made no difference to Jeff
Clayton, for his mind was too full in arranging the tangled threads of
the mystery that he had been at work on for the last week--a week full
of deep thought and far seeing analysis.

Soon after his return to the Delano house, the people whom he had
summoned to meet him there, began to arrive. But the detective did
not make his appearance until all were gathered there. Walter Delano
greeted his guests, most of whom he did not know, but all understood
fully the purpose for which they had been summoned--all had lost
beloved friends by the sting of the red dragon.

Jeff entered with Walter Delano, placing two packages on the table in
front of him. He got right to the point.

“I will not detain you for long, ladies and gentlemen. Nor have I
any wish or intention of exploiting my own achievements. I should
much prefer not to be known in this matter at all, beyond the few who
have been aware of what I have been doing. As it is I am under deep
obligations to Miss Margaret Kershaw here, who is entitled to whatever
credit there may be--”

Miss Kershaw shook her head and protested mildly.

“To get at the explanation that is due you all, I will say that in each
case, the deaths of your friends has been the result of a well laid
plot--the mad desire of a fanatic to recover a certain object which he
believed was essential to his own well being, and that the spirits of
his ancestors might be relieved and rest in peace ever afterward.”

They looked their perplexity.

Jeff deliberately picked up a package from the table and removed the
wrapper.

“Have any of you ever seen this before?” he asked holding the object
aloft.

“What is it?” asked a voice.

“A pipe.”

“I have,” answered a voice sharply. “It belonged to Roger Delano. I
remember it very well.”

“Any of the rest of you recall it?”

Some of them did and others did not.

“For those who do not, I will explain. This is a pipe that once
belonged to a noble family of Japan. Neatly secreted beneath the bowl
of this pipe is a chamber which holds a sacred prayer. It is known as
the prayer in the pipe. This pipe being a sacred thing has been handed
down from generation to generation. There is a belief among those
fanatical people that should a pipe of this sort get into other hands,
it means condemning the original owner and all his family to hell’s
fire until the sacred pipe shall have been returned. This belief is
quite general among Oriental people--both the Chinese and Japanese.
In this instance it is a Japanese pipe. The prayer is here. And here
is the green jade god with which the crimes were committed. A certain
secret sect of Chinamen was elicited in the service of the Japanese who
sought the recovery of the pipe that Roger Delano brought back with him
from the East. How he became possessed of it we shall never know. It
took some years before they could get trace of it. They believed the
pipe had been either destroyed or lost. But according to their belief
if every person who had handled or owned it were put to death, the
sentence on the Oriental ancestors would be removed. The gods would
smile.”

Jeff paused, while his hearers uttered expressions of amazement.

“I suspected something of the sort from the first, but it was only
today that my suspicions were absolutely confirmed. And now there is
only one thing to be done.”

“And that?” asked Walter Delano.

“Return the pipe to its original or rather rightful owner. If it is
not done the same quest will once more turn up perhaps years later and
other innocent lives will be sacrificed. I see before me now several,
through whose hands this pipe has passed. Believe me, each one of such
is marked for death.”

They shuddered.

“But the criminals?” questioned the Philadelphia officer. “What of
them? Are they to go scot free?”

“No. They are under arrest. All are where they can do no more harm just
now, and the evidence against them is so strong that I see no way of
escape.”

“Then what good will the pipe do the murderer if he is going to be
convicted?”

“He will see to it that it gets into the hands of the next of kin after
his doom is finally sealed, do not worry about that. And that, ladies
and gentlemen finishes the mystery of the Red Dragon so far as I am
concerned.”

“I move that we subscribe a fund for our friend Jeff Clayton,” cried
Walter Delano, enthusiastically, springing up.

Jeff’s face flushed ever so little.

“I beg you will do nothing of the sort,” he replied with dignity. “I am
not a charity patient. I will take the pipe and the green jade god with
me for the present, as both are worth their weight in gold as evidence
in this case. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I bid you good afternoon.”

Jeff Clayton was gone from the room almost before they were aware of
it, and they saw him no more. Already his mind was at work on other
cases that were to absorb his attention as he rode homeward. He gave
no further thought to the mystery that would have proved impossible of
solution to any other than Jeff Clayton, detective.


THE END.

The following story in the Adventure Series will be JEFF CLAYTON’S
RIDDLE, or The Fatal Thrust of The Phantom Arm. This is a remarkable
mystery story, one of the most perplexing that has as yet been offered
in the life of this noted detective. It is a weird tale of crime, full
of thrilling situations and daring deeds, that will be found intensely
absorbing. Remember this will be No. 52 in the Adventure Series.




Transcriber’s Notes:


Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Some errors
(extra/missing punctuation, missing words, etc.) from the original
text and are retained here as originally printed, since there is some
ambiguity in authorial intent.

Some inconsistently spelled or hyphenated words were normalized to the
most prevalent versions (e.g. “equippage” to “equipage” and “to-day” to
“today”).

Italics are represented using _underscores_.

On page 163, the word “formerly” in the phrase “formerly unknown” is a
best guess, as the original printing was illegible due to plate damage.

The original Arthur Westbrook edition of this title included 18
unnumbered pages of advertisements following the text of the novel,
promoting other Westbrook publications (including _Egyptian Secrets_,
_Westbrook’s Mammoth Joke Books_, _The Polite Letter Writer_, _The Man
They Could Not Hang_, _Herman’s Black Art_, _Baseball Jokes_, _Fortune
Teller; or, Peeps into Futurity_, _Jesse James, My Father_, _Magicians’
Book of Conjuring_, _The Sixth & Seventh Books of Moses; or, Moses,
Magic, Spirits, Art_, _The Old Three Witches Dream Book_, _New Line
of Twenty-five Cent Hand Books_, _Alger’s Library_ and _The Lovers’
Casket_). They are not reproduced here due to the poor print quality of
the original text, and their availability in other sources.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79772 ***