Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China

by George F. Worts

  CHAPTER XVIII

  At about five o'clock the next afternoon Peter, in his hotel bedroom,called for a pitcher of ice-water, the major portion of which hedisposed of before considering the next move.

  Afternoon sunlight, entering by the single large window, mapped out aradiant oblong of red on the heavy carpet. The long, insolent shriekof a taxicab arose from the square. The bedroom was redolent of thesour odor of last night's cigarette smoke. He had forgotten, forperhaps the first time in his memory, to throw open the window uponretiring. As he arose stiffly from the bed an empty brown bottlebounded to the floor with a thump, and the latter riotous portion oflast evening came slowly back to him. He had decided to do something.What had he made up his mind to do? He sat down on the edge of the bedwith his head in his hands and frowned. He remembered now.

  He was going back to China!

  With a throbbing head and a recurrence of the sticky feeling in hismouth, he stripped off his pajamas, went into the bath-room, andshivered and grunted under an icy shower for five minutes, by whichtime some of the despondency which last night's affair had brought overhim was shaken, his headache was loosened a bit, his wits were moreclearly in hand, and the warm blood was shooting through him.

  After a brisk rub-down he dressed quickly--he had barely had timeenough to recover his suit-cases from the San Friole baggage-room whenhe had fled--and put in a call for the Marconi office.

  Shortly he had the chief operator on the wire, and he explained brieflythat out-of-town business had interfered with his calling the daybefore, but that he would drop around for a conference bright and earlythe next morning. He added that he intended to take the _King of Asia_back to China.

  When he entered the chief operator's cubicle, the chief operator lookedinto the face of a man who had aged, a white, sad face, the face of aman who had found the sample of life he had tasted to be a bittermouthful.

  "Back again, as I live!" he chirruped, pumping Peter's handexuberantly. "Where now, Peter?"

  "China," said Peter; "my old love, the _King of Asia_, sails to-morrow.Can I have her?"

  "Sure thing! By the way, here's a special delivery letter for you inthe mail that hasn't been assorted--a nice square envelope. Looks tome like a wedding invitation!"

  Peter examined the square, white envelope.

  A wedding invitation with a San Friole canceling stamp.

  Absently he dropped it into his pocket.

  Making his way to the St. Francis he found that San Toy Fong haddeparted for parts unknown. So he sat down at a desk in thewriting-room, and penned a brief note, addressing it in care of Ah SihKing. He knew that the letter would reach San Toy Fong as rapidly as agrape-vine telegraph could deliver it to him. He knew that it would beopened, coded and transmitted to the second coil of the vast, hiddengovernment, wherever he might be--from Singapore to Singapore.

  The import of that note was simply that he, Peter Moore, was returningto China, and promised to interfere in no way with the band'sactivities. If he should change his mind, he added, he would filenotice of such decision with the duly accredited agents of Len Yang'smonarch at the Jen Kee Road place, in Shanghai.

  The purple shoulders of the Golden Gate were sinking into thesilver-tipped waves when Peter, having despatched his clearancemessage, left the tireless cabin for a look at the glorious red sunsetand a breath of the fresh Pacific air.

  A room steward, who had just ascended the iron ladder, approached,touching his cap with a deferential forefinger. "A letter addressed toyou, sir. Found it in the corridor outside your stateroom. Must havefallen from your pocket."

  The wedding invitation with a San Friole date-mark!

  With nerveless fingers Peter drew out, not an envelope, but a stiffcard. And he stared at the card in the red twilight, and groaned inpain and astonishment.

  Have I said that this was St. Valentine's Day? In the color of thedying sun, and painted carefully by hand, was a tiny heart, bleeding.

  And that was the only message.