Marching Sands. Harold Lamb

than he professed to be.

      “The Excellency saved my life,” muttered the Kirghiz, glancing around craftily. “It was written that I should die this day, and he kept me from the sight of the angel of death. But thirteen taels is a great deal of wealth. It would be well if I found my gun, and slew the soldier. Then the Excellency would have his thirteen taels again. Where is he to be found?”

      “At the inn by the western wall. But never mind the Manchu. Save your own skin.”

      Gray strode off down the alley, for men were coming after them. In the rear of an unsavory hut, the Kirghiz plucked his sleeve.

      “Aye, it shall so be, Excellency,” he whispered. “Has the honorable master any tobacco?”

      Impatiently Gray sifted some tobacco from his pouch into the hunter’s scarred hand. Mirai Khan then asked for matches.

      “I will not forget,” he said importantly. “You will see Mirai Khan again. I swear it. And I will tell you something. Wu Fang Chien is in Liangchowfu.”

      With that the man shambled off down an alley, looking for all the world like a shaggy dog with unusually long legs. Gray stared after him with a smile. Then he turned back toward the inn.

      That night there was a feast in Liangchowfu. The sound of the temple drums reached to the inn. Lanterns appeared on the house fronts across the street. Throngs of priests passed by in ceremonial procession, bearing lights. In the inn courtyard a group of musicians took their stand, producing a hideous mockery of a tune on cymbals and one-stringed fiddles. But the main room of the inn, where the eating tables were set with bowls and chop-sticks, was deserted except for a wandering rooster.

      “I’m going out to see the show,” asserted Gray, who was weary of inaction.

      “What!” The Syrian stared at him, fingering his beard restlessly. “With Wu Fang Chien in the town!”

      “Certainly. There’s nothing to be done here. I may be able to pick up information which will be useful—if we are in danger.”

      Delabar tossed his cigarette away and shrugged his shoulders.

      “We are marked men, my young friend. I saw this afternoon that a guard has been posted at the town gates. Those musicians yonder are spies. The master of the inn is in the stable, with our men.”

      “Then we’ll shake our escort for a while.” Gray’s smile faded. “Look here, Professor. I’m alive to the pickle we’re in. We’ve got to get out of this place. And I want to have a look at that hole in the wall Mirai Khan told me about. For one thing—to see if horses can get through it.”

      Delabar accompanied him out of the courtyard, into the street. Gray noted grimly that the musicians ceased playing with their departure. He beckoned Delabar to follow and turned down the alley he had visited that afternoon. Looking over his shoulder he saw a dark form slip into the entrance of the alley.

      “Double time, Professor,” whispered Gray. Grasping the other by the arm he trotted through the piles of refuse that littered the rear of the houses, turning sharply several times until he was satisfied they were no longer followed. As a landmark, he had the dark bulk of the pagoda which formed the roof of the temple.

      Toward this he made his way, dodging back into the shadows when he sighted a group of Chinese. He was now following the course of the wall, which took him into a garden, evidently a part of the temple grounds.

      He saw nothing of the opening Mirai Khan had mentioned. But a murmur of voices from the shuttered windows of the edifice stirred his interest.

      “It is a meeting of the Buddhists,” whispered Delabar. “I heard the temple messengers crying the summons in the street this afternoon.”

      Gray made his way close to the building. It was a lofty structure of carved wood. The windows were small and high overhead. Gray scanned them speculatively.

      “We weren’t invited to the reunion, Professor,” he meditated, “but I’d give something for a look inside. Judging by what you’ve told me, these Buddhist fellows are our particular enemies. And it’s rather a coincidence they held a lodge meeting to-night.”

      He felt along the wall for a space. They were sheltered from view from the street by the garden trees.

      “Hullo,” he whispered, “here’s luck. A door. Looks like a stage entrance, with some kind of carving over it.”

      Delabar pushed forward and peered at the inscription. The reflected light of the illumination in the street enabled him to see fairly well.

      “This is the gate of ceremony of the temple,” he observed. “It is one of the doors built for a special occasion—only to be used by a scholar of the town who has won the highest honors of the Hanlin academy, or by the emperor himself—when there was one.”

      Gray pushed at the door. It was not fastened, but being in disuse, gave in slowly, with a creak of iron hinges. Delabar checked him.

      “You know nothing of Chinese customs,” he hissed warningly. “It is forbidden for any one to enter. The penalty——”

      “Beheading, I suppose,” broke in Gray impatiently. “Come along, Delabar. This is a special occasion, and, by Jove—you’re a distinguished scholar.”

      He drew the other inside with him. They stood in a black passage filled with an odor of combined must and incense. Gray took his pocket flashlight from his coat and flickered its beam in front of them. He could feel Delabar shivering. Wondering at the state of the scientist’s nerves, he made out an opening before them in which steps appeared.

      They seemed to be in a deserted part of the temple. Gray wanted very much to see what was going on—and what was at the head of the stairs. He ascended as quietly as possible, followed by the Syrian who was muttering to himself.