The Black Parrot

MALAY HOUSE

Morning and the dazzle of sunlight on sea. The water glittered east and west, glittered north and south, in corrugated blue. A heat-mist danced in the sun's path, impalpable as smoke; to Lhassa, indefinite as the future. The previous night Conquest had told her that morning would bring sight of land; so she was on deck early, half expecting to see the coast-line, but the blue and gold sea melted into the flawless, burning sky.

Throughout the morning—a morning interminable—she sat under the awning, eagerly watching. Conquest, as usual, did not show himself; she presumed he was in the chart-house, where he spent most of his time. Since the night he told her of Indra's consort she had seen little of him, partly because she avoided him and partly because he avoided her. A tense restraint had come between them.... Just before noon a thread appeared on the horizon. She saw it with a tremor of excitement; watched it gradually expand until it lay against the sky like a green rind. At lunch Conquest told her the ship would be within two miles of land by three o'clock and then follow the shore to Sadok. After the meal she returned to her post.

As five bells clanged out, Conquest joined her, but for only a moment.

"Borneo," he said with a sweeping gesture. "Land of every boy's dreams; jungles and swampy trails; orang-utans and head-hunters!"

He left her a pair of marine glasses with which she scanned the coast. At first it was blurred because of the lenses, but she adjusted them, and, like some fabulous continent emerging from mists, Borneo came into focus.

White beaches and spumy surf; the green of jungles, blue hollows in the shrubbery where trails groped inland. Beyond this savage stronghold rose slate towers—mountains whose misty ranges melted into the sumptuous blend of color. Their bases seemed dissolved, their peaks floating, detached, like aërial kingdoms. An off-shore breeze, warm from lush soil, brought a scented balm, a greeting soft and sensuous.

Lhassa experienced an exhilarating sense of discovery, of having come upon a new world. Yet, strangely, it seemed familiar; just a flicker—a hand sweeping the dust of centuries from a mirror—then the glass was clouded again. The Narcissus had shifted her course and was steaming parallel with the coast. Lhassa gazed through the binoculars until her vision quivered, then closed her eyes and lay back in the chair; closed her eyes and dreamed of empires buried beyond the mountains, of races whose history died with them, leaving to the world only a legacy of mystery.

Toward late afternoon the yacht dropped in close to shore, and, shortly before sunset, rounded a promontory, entering a small harbor. Trees rose black and somber against a wounded sky. On one side of the tiny bay, some distance from a break that suggested the mouth of a river, cliffs strove up from the beach, their crests luxuriant with palms. With the marine glasses Lhassa verified the impression that a river emptied into the harbor. Flanking its estuary, on the left side, were rows of huts on poles, and, beyond these, whitewashed houses. On the opposite bank, bordering a low landing-stage, stood what appeared to be a series of warehouses. She perceived several people on the dock, half-naked pygmies. One figure stood apart, a man whose white garments seemed to draw the light and gleam white in the garnet sunset.

The approach of Conquest interrupted further observation.

"I came to suggest that you pack in a hand-bag the things you'll need immediately and leave your heavier luggage to be brought up in the morning. I shall have to go ashore as soon as we drop anchor. The captain will send you when you're ready, and I'll be waiting. Up there"—with a gesture toward the promontory—"in the palm grove, is my palace where I play at being rajah of Kawaras. I call it Malay House."

Malay House. She repeated the name; gazed at the fronds that concealed it. He had said that Sadok was the port of Kawaras, a trading-post, so undoubtedly there would be others besides his household. And his household——Was Garon a member? A thrill of expectation traveled over her. Malay House! Intrigue in the words. What would she find there? Whom would she find there? The Black Parrot's band?

Her conjectures were cut short by a muffled detonation that rumbled out across the water. The sound seemed a signal for the sun to disappear, for it dropped suddenly and dusk settled, hydrangea-blue. Conquest glanced toward a wisp of smoke that hung over the landing.

"A salute to the Tuan Rajah," he explained, smiling.

A moment later the engines were stilled, and the anchor plunged into mud bedding some five hundred yards from the landing. Lhassa remained on deck until Conquest was rowed to the dock. The figures by the warehouses had been reduced to shadows, all but the white-clad one. He seemed suspended in gloom, a creature unrelated to earth. Her curiosity was stirred as she watched him move forward to meet Conquest. Garon?...

When she returned to the deck with her bag night had fallen. The somber trees were merged with the sable sky; water met land blackly. All about her was darkness made more intense by the stars and a few lights on shore. In the direction of the landing a lantern rocked through the gloom like a strayed and drunken star. She felt frightened as she was helped down the ladder and into the stern-sheets of a life-boat. The night was oppressive as a prison.

Conquest was waiting on the dock, a friendly figure in a hostile world, and she forgot the strain that had come between them. He had a companion who she thought, at first, was the white-clad man but who proved to be a turbaned East Indian, evidently a servant, for he relieved her of her bag. As they moved off, Conquest leading with the lantern, she had the impression that the East Indian deliberately smiled at her. It startled her, left her vaguely uneasy. The expression was no sorcery of the shadows: he had smiled, smiled in a furtive, prescient manner. Why? Puzzled, she stared at his turban bobbing along in front.

An unpleasant odor tainted the air, and Conquest volunteered the explanation that it was from sago in the godowns. "The plantation is up the river, near the sultan's village," he added.

A path led past the warehouses and among trees, sloping upward. At the top were many palms, their valences motionless against the starry sky. Although she could not see the water, she could hear the smothered beat of waves; she knew they were on the headland. Conquest did not speak until they reached a wall of shrubs, and, ahead, a torn waste of roofs was outlined upon the deeper darkness of trees. Then:

"Malay House," he announced, "or the Astana, as the natives call it, which means the palace."

The house was huge and white, and a walk curved about it to a screened portico. Several Malays stood near the doorway. "Tuan rajah baik?" they inquired in one voice. To which Conquest nodded gravely, and entered. Within, Lhassa gained a swift impression of spaciousness and white walls. The East Indian had disappeared; a Malay "boy" had her bag.

"We dine about eight," Conquest said. "If you prefer, you may——"

"We?" she interposed.

"Yes, my head overseer and I."

"A white man?"

"Of course."

"No others?"

He shook his head. She decided quickly.

"I shall be ready at eight."

He spoke to two of the Malays, then informed her:

"These will be your personal boys."

"Guards," she thought as she moved up a stairway and along a dim corridor. One of the Malays opened a door, lighted a lamp; the other entered with her bag. The room was large and white, the furniture stained green. A casement opened upon a veranda.

When the "boys" had gone she stood in the middle of the floor, thinking. Her new surroundings, so obviously foreign, made real her captivity and forced her to realize that she was shut off from the world, with chance her only ally. A prisoner. The thought was incongruous. It frightened her; but also it strengthened her determination to use every opportunity. She would find out, among other things, why the East Indian had smiled. She sensed in the head overseer, who she fancied was the white-clad man on the dock, an instrument. Suddenly, without reason, she thought of Garon. What of him? Was he in Sadok or Saigon?

2

Shortly before eight o'clock Lhassa descended into the main hall. Her finger-tips were cold, and a mild attack of vertigo, result of suppressed excitement, made her vision dance. Conquest was waiting—and with him a man in a white silk suit. Both men seemed blurred, out of focus.

"Miss Camber," began Conquest, "this is my head overseer—Tuan Muda the Malays call him. Tuan Muda, you know, means 'Young Lord.'"

The dizziness passed, and Lhassa saw a face deeply bronzed and clean shaven. The mouth was impatient, almost hard, the eyes steady; green eyes that met her gaze rather insolently. This expression, she perceived, was due to a scar on his temple, a white crescent that drew his left eyebrow into an impudent slant. She was acutely conscious of his appraising look. He bowed slightly in acknowledgment of the introduction; said nothing. It was an awkward situation, and Conquest quickly relieved it with the announcement that dinner was ready.

Throughout the meal Tuan Muda commanded Lhassa's gaze. There was something vaguely familiar about him, an element in personality rather than a physical feature. His hands—long, lithe hands—called to mind what Barthélemy had told her of Garon. But Tuan Muda could not be Garon: Garon had a humped back. Tuan Muda: Young Lord. Who was he? Had she seen him somewhere before or was the familiarity only imaginary? She remembered that previous to her meeting with him she had considered him a possible instrument; and, figuratively, she smiled. His face proclaimed him a type not easily cajoled or coerced. His taciturnity, his indifference, irritated her. He spoke only when Conquest addressed him; he had no accent but a clearness of pronunciation that was foreign. He apparently took little notice of her. Oh, yes, she knew his type! she assured herself. Head overseer. It was a position to which he was well suited. A driver of men, exacting, relentless in his judgment of all, even himself. What secrets, she wondered, were hidden behind his impassive face? What part had he in Conquest's schemes? He was a partner surely, for his personality was not that of an underling. As she contemplated him she was possessed, suddenly, of a desire to subject him to her will, to force from him his secrets, to drive him as she fancied he drove others.

After dinner they retired to a room lined with shelves of books, and while the men had claret and cigars, she pretended to examine several heavily bound volumes. Her impulse had been to go to her room immediately, but curiosity persuaded her to linger. However, their talk yielded nothing. Conquest asked if certain shipments had been made; if there had been any news from the plantation; when Salazar was coming. Tuan Muda answered each query tersely. She was at the point of leaving when Conquest addressed her.

"Miss Camber, I would like to show you a few of my collections. I've some rather interesting treasures, you know." He rose, taking from the table one of a pair of brass candelabra and moving to an arched doorway. "This"—as he thrust aside draperies—"is the Chinese room."

Lhassa joined him, observing that Tuan Muda sat motionless, staring into gray whirls of smoke and restlessly fingering his lapel. The Chinese room, like all the rooms she had seen in Malay House, was white-plastered, and paneled and floored with teak. A gorgeously embroidered screen and a vermilion-lacquered chest glowed in the candle-light; porcelains and bronzes were arranged on shelves.

"Notice that carved bell," he said, pointing toward a glass cabinet. "It's of the Kien-lung Period, made from a piece of Rasham Darya jade. And that coral and silver tse-boum, there, is from Tibet, from your name-sake, Lhassa. This"—crossing the room to a second arched doorway and parting portières—"this is what I call the Damascus room."

Numberless weapons were on the walls and in glass cases: blades from Damascus and Nirmul; slim Rajput swords, hilts of Jeypore enamel; simitars and lances from North Africa; broadswords and sabers, some jeweled, others cruelly plain; straight blades and curved blades, small blades and large blades, the reflected candle-light trickling and crawling along their keen edges.

"These rugs," Conquest went on, indicating three faded patterns hung like tapestries upon the walls, and one on the floor, "are part of my collection. The one in the corner is an old Persian silk prayer-rug from Shiraz; that one"—gesturing—"is a Baku. The rose-pink and blue affair we're standing on is a Sehna Khilim."

On the opposite wall, between sword-cases, was a long carpet of rose and blue and green, bordered with a lancet leaf and palmette design. Its bold colors attracted Lhassa, and she moved to it, studying the exquisite weave.

"An Ispahan of the sixteenth century," Conquest informed her; "a legacy of the Sufi reigns. I got it from a mosque in Tabriz. Quite an adventure connected with it."

She raised one corner, running her hand over the frayed texture, and, to her surprise, saw that the carpet was hung to conceal a door.

"That's the entrance to the Djinnee's Cave," spoke up the man in answer to her questioning look. "It's taboo—even to my servants. In it I keep my most valuable treasures—and my past. Oh, it's securely locked and the key hidden!"

He smiled whimsically, but the candle-light, flickering across his white face, hinted at suppressed bitterness. He turned quickly and took a small dagger from a case.

"I picked up this misericorde in Smyrna," he told her, changing the subject. "You see the blade: it's channeled and perforated for poison. Daggers like this were used during the Crusades, and after, to give the death-blow to a fallen knight." He balanced the misericorde on his palm: candle-light licked along its blade and spread in a lambent tongue on the heavily chased hilt. "When I go up-country I carry this to use in the event any of the Dyak tribes suddenly decide to swing a few more heads in their communal houses. Of course I take a revolver, too—but it's not for myself. No; to die under the point of a misericorde is more romantic than to be shot or beheaded! However, I don't expect to have to make use of the dagger, as the Dyaks are a peaceful lot now—especially those in Kawaras and Sarawak. The Malays are more likely to give me trouble than the Dyaks. You see, when I took over Kawaras the sultan was forced to agree to certain conditions that didn't please him. So he removed his court from Sadok up the river, to a spot near the fort; the fort's on the plantation, you know. His palace, where he plays at being sultan, is in a conventional Malay stockade, and built about the village are a number of Sea Dyak communal houses. It's the usual Far-Eastern comic-opera court: the intrigues, the jealousies, the plots and counter-plots. The sultan's cousin, Nakoda Mubin, the commander-in-chief of the army, aspires to the throne. He's a decent sort of chap, quite willing to bow to British sovereignty. But the sultan is a violent irreconcilable. However, he doesn't dare do more than fume and rage, because he knows Nakoda Mubin is powerful, and he's afraid trouble with the raj might cost him his throne."

Lhassa listened, but all the while she was thinking of the hidden door. The Djinnee's Cave he had called it. "In it I keep ... my past." His past! She determined, instantly, to explore the taboo room; she would find a way; she felt intuitively that behind the door was the secret of the scarred wrists—and the scarred heart.

Conquest had started toward the library, but he paused and turned.

"We may as well have an understanding now," he announced. "Your boundary lines are the cliffs on the east and south, and the warehouses on the north; it's unnecessary for me to forbid you to go into the jungle. I don't think it wise to let you cross the river; however, if you're interested, some day I'll arrange for you to see the Malay village and the Chinese bazaar. You see, Tuan Muda and I are the only white men in Sadok; my employees are Chinese and Klings. A word about the servants: I explained to them that you are a ranee from across the water, very powerful in your country, but"—with a smile—"not as powerful as I. That's diplomacy, of course. Now, have I your word that you'll stay within bounds?"

She gave it readily, for she believed that for the present she would find sufficient to interest her in and about Malay House.

They returned to the library, where Tuan Muda sat, smoking and playing solitaire. He rose at her entrance. She did not even glance at him, but moved into the hall and up-stairs.

When she reached her room she sank into a great wicker chair and thought; thought of Conquest, of the forbidden room, and of Tuan Muda. Mainly of Tuan Muda. There was a challenging element of mystery about him. His indifference antagonized her, yet, queerly, her hostility was tinged with admiration. She realized he could not easily be subjected by a woman's charms. She resented it and resolved, resolved coldly, to reduce him to a state of thraldom. As she sat there planning, the lines that Barthélemy had quoted ran through her mind:

Lhassa was aware of the fact that she was beautiful. But she was not vain beyond a normal degree. She regarded bodily perfection as an instrument, one not to be neglected nor, on the other hand, misused. Fortunately, she had a sense of proportion which never failed to discriminate between the unscrupulous and the essentially proper though unconventional.

Conquest's collections, his bronzes, swords, and rugs, presented a new angle for conjecture. In Bangkok she had heard that the Black Parrot was reputed to be a thief who stole art treasures, antiques of intrinsic worth, and sold them to collectors. Was it not plausible, then, to assume that either Garon or Tuan Muda was the Black Parrot—working for Conquest? The convicts who escaped from Cayenne fitted into this theory: they were members of a band, the Black Parrot's band. It was possible, she argued, that the Black Parrot was an organization instead of an individual; possible, yes, but it was an unconvincing conjecture. The Black Parrot was a man. Of the two, Garon or Tuan Muda, the former seemed the more likely suspect. She believed that he stole the Emerald Buddha and killed Dr. Garth; stole the god for Conquest and killed the doctor while attempting to rob him. Garon, she assured herself, was undoubtedly Letourneau, the garroter, who had escaped from Cayenne and aided others. But Tuan Muda? A mystery, a rather irritating mystery.

She rose; exchanged her dress for the dragon kimono; seated herself before the mirror. She continued to think of Tuan Muda as she ran a comb through her long burnished hair; and as she thought of him, an anticipatory smile touched her lips.

Lhassa did not go to sleep immediately. Her faculties were too thoroughly aroused. She lay in darkness and stared at the ceiling, wishing some noise would break the quiet. The stillness—the hush of a tropical night—was profound except when a languorous breeze stirred the window-curtains or whispered in the trees. Once she heard footsteps below; another time, voices somewhere close by. The silence evoked recollections and staged a pageant, a pageant imposed upon the shifting backgrounds of the last six weeks. She saw herself with Barthélemy in the café in Singapore; visualized the landing at Bangkok, the temple of the Emerald Buddha, and her meeting with Conquest; heard again the story of Le Perroquet Noir, the history of Angkor, and the legend of Pi-noi, the bayadere. Faces and scenes became confused and clogged her mind. She shut her eyes; tried to sleep; failed. The moments lengthened into eons.

She was growing drowsy when she started involuntarily and raised herself on one arm. The cause was a sound, a knock, a tap, something; she did not know what. But as she listened she heard only the increased palpitations of her heart. After a moment she decided, without being convinced, that she must have been dreaming, and dropped back on the pillow.

Cr-rr-rr-atch!

It came suddenly, distinctly; came from the veranda; sounded as though some one had scratched upon the screen.

She lay motionless, ears strained.

Again: cr-rr-rr-atch!

No mistake; from the veranda. A moment of irresolution; then, quietly, she swung out of the bed. At the casement she paused, peering out. Gray darkness, stars and the loom of trees. No sound except the rustle of leaves.

She took a step; halted.

The end of a pole had appeared outside the screen and scratched across the wire.

As it dropped from sight she moved forward fearlessly. Standing several feet from the screen it was possible for her to see below, and she distinguished a dark figure against mottled shadows. It was a man, and he held, upright, a pole fully four yards long. She could make out the oval of his face—and a white turban. Turban! The East Indian!

As she watched, he lifted the pole tentatively, then, suddenly, dropped it and ran, disappearing behind the house. Almost instantly another figure, this one entirely in white, materialized in the opposite direction and hurried to the spot where the pole lay. She gained an impression of height and broad shoulders; knew it was Tuan Muda. As she recognized him, he looked up, and she stepped back. Her heart was thumping loudly. Scarcely a second he stood there, gaze lifted, then he swung off into the gloom that had absorbed the first figure.

Lhassa waited for several minutes, and, when nothing more happened, crept into the room. Seating herself on the side of the bed, she stared at the gray rectangle of the casement and reviewed what she had seen. Why had the East Indian (she was sure it was he) scratched on the screen? Obviously he had come to tell her something—and obviously Tuan Muda had frightened him away. And what was the East Indian doing prowling about at this hour?

She rose; found a match; struck it; saw that the time was ten minutes to eleven.

Once more she lay down. She was not frightened but puzzled, and wider awake than before. She pictured the pantomime of the two men. In the morning, she resolved, she would question the East Indian. And Tuan Muda, too. Meanwhile, she needed sleep. But it was some time before oblivion came, and even then she was restless, disturbed by strange dreams and spells of semi-consciousness.

3

Breakfast was brought to her room by a "boy," and as she ate, sitting on the cool veranda, she reflected upon the affair of the previous night. There was tangible proof of its reality, for the pole lay in the grass below.

She dressed leisurely and went down-stairs. The great white hall was deserted; nor was there any one on the portico. In the daylight, Malay House seemed larger than her first impression. It was, in fact, two long two-storied white bungalows joined by spacious verandas. The blinds and shingles were green, and palms and fragrant shrubs surrounded it. In front the foliage had been partly cleared, and a walk, dappled with sunlight, led under an arch of trees to the blue glimmer of water. In that direction, she presumed, were the cliffs.

While she was standing on the portico, surveying the grounds, two Malays, each in jacket, sarong and headkerchief, appeared from behind the house; she recognized the "boys" assigned to her.

Where was Mr. Conquest? she inquired.

The Tuan Rajah was at the godowns, one of the Malays replied.

And Tuan Muda, too?

Yes.

She then asked where she could find the East Indian who had brought her bag from the dock the night before.

The spokesman answered that he had not seen Abdulla Khan since early morning. However, he suggested, Tuan Muda might know where he was; Abdulla was the Young Lord's servant.

"Why do you call him Tuan Muda?" she probed. "What is his name?"

"We call him Tuan Muda," said the Malay, with characteristic dignity, "because he is Tuan Muda, the Young Lord, and adviser of the Tuan Rajah. He has no other name."

She made no further effort to pry information from the Malays, but went to her room, and, procuring her sun-helmet, started for the warehouses. Some distance from the house she glanced behind and saw her "boys" following. Annoyed, she waited until they caught up with her.

"Go back," she ordered. "I wish to go alone."

"It is the Tuan Rajah's command that we follow," she was placidly informed. "Ahmad and Pangku obey, Rajah Ranee."

Resentment glowed; but she would have been more displeased had she understood the inference of the title "Rajah Ranee."

"He said you were my servants," she declared imperiously. "In that case, who is to be obeyed, he or I?"

"The Tuan Rajah is lord of Kawaras," was the Malay's reply.

Chagrined, but realizing the futility of argument, she resumed her walk to the warehouses.

As she approached the large zinc-roofed buildings, the odor of sago assailed her. Brown men, naked but for sarongs, were at work on the dock, and across the river, hazed by blistering sunlight, were other figures. Several canoes made rippling paths in midstream. A tall man, tan as his cork helmet, was standing in the doorway of the farthest godown. She recognized him.

"Wait!" she called, for as he saw her he turned and started to enter. "I want to speak to you."

Tuan Muda halted, frowning. He wore brown drill breeches and puttees; his pongee shirt was damp with perspiration. The fact that he did not remove his helmet was fuel to her mood. She knew that men did not stand bareheaded in tropical sunlight, but she did not wish to justify what she chose to think was lack of chivalry.

"Where is Mr. Conquest?" she asked.

"Across the river"—negligently. Thumbs were thrust under his belt; fingers tapped his hips. She noticed his nervousness and interpreted it as impatience.

A glance over her shoulder showed her Ahmad and Pangku a few yards away.

"Will you send them off? I can't make them go—and I wish to talk to you alone."

He lifted his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. It was curly and reddish; streaked with gold where the sunlight touched it.

"What can you have to say"—replacing the head-gear—"that they should not hear?"

A flare of anger whipped color into her cheeks.

"Do you discuss your affairs in the presence of servants?"

He shrugged. "It is often safer than with friends," he remarked impudently. However, he flung a few words in Malayan to the natives, and instantly they moved off. Their prompt obedience to his command humiliated her.

"Well?"

She deliberately waited a moment, smothering her wrath, then announced:

"I saw what happened under my veranda last night. Perhaps you can explain."

"Explain?" A lift of his eyebrows. "What is there to explain?"

"Why you were there," she snapped, "and what you were doing."

"Are you sure," he countered, "you have the right to an explanation? How do you know it concerned you, that bit of mummery?"

"I was awakened by some one scratching on my screen"—her indignation growing—"and I saw the East Indian below. He came for a purpose, evidently to tell me something, but you prevented it. If you don't explain, I shall ask him and——"

"He is my servant," Tuan Muda cut in.

"That doesn't necessarily imply that he wouldn't tell if the proper inducement were offered."

He smiled slightly, a rather pleasant expression that momentarily relaxed his stern features.

"No," he agreed. "But Abdulla left Kawaras this morning."

"You sent him away deliberately!" she flashed.

"I did. I thought it wise."

She prevented an outburst only by holding her tongue. For an instant she looked at him, eyes burning, then swung about. However, realizing he had spoken the last word, she turned back.

"You were afraid," she accused, "afraid for me to know why he came. That's why you sent him away—why you won't explain now."

"No," he declared, unruffled. "No, that is not the reason. It would be futile for me to attempt to explain. Absolutely. If I were so indiscreet as to tell the truth, you wouldn't believe, and if I lied.... But why should I lie? Therefore, it is better, under the circumstances, to keep silent."

With that he entered the warehouse. She wanted to follow, to catch him by the shoulders and shake him—or strike him. She hated Tuan Muda. But, even in anger, she realized her animosity was not dislike but a healthy resentment against his attitude.

She did not return to the house, but walked down to the landing-stage, where several canoes were moored. Her impulse was to get into one and paddle up the river; this, she felt, might act as an exhaust for her temper. However, she only stood there on the dock, eyes shaded, and gazed across the stream at the pole-raised shacks.

A long proa, as Malay craft are called, was gliding away from the opposite bank, manned by many natives. In the stern, seated beneath a yellow umbrella, was a figure in white—some dignitary she presumed. But after a moment she perceived it was Conquest. She debated whether to remain or return to the house. Curiosity conquered.

As the proa drew nearer, its white occupant saluted her. When the long boat came alongside, two of the crew leaped upon the landing, making fast the craft. Then Conquest was assisted out, the yellow umbrella held over him by a tall, immobile individual in gold-trimmed jacket and silk sarong.

"You behold me in state for the first time," was his greeting. "I've just made my official rounds. A devilish lot of exertion on a hot day like this."

She considered telling what had happened under her veranda and of the interview with Tuan Muda, but decided negatively.

"It's quite impressive," she commented coolly, glancing at his retinue. "Do you go about this way all the time?"

"Yes." He smiled. "It's one of the prices of sovereignty. However, this bit of swank is nothing; to-morrow you'll witness a really spectacular performance. I just received word from Salazar, my manager at the fort, saying that he and Abu Hassan, the sultan, are arriving to-morrow morning to pay an official call. I think I told you the sultan's village is a five days' journey up-river, situated near the sago plantation. The old reprobate will appear with about ten or more canoes and Heaven only knows how large an escort of Malays and Dyaks. The occasion rates a celebration, so I've given instructions to prepare for a reception to-morrow night. You'll find it interesting. I see"—his gaze straying beyond her—"that you're properly attended."

She knew without looking that Ahmad and Pangku were behind.

"They are exemplary servants," she remarked icily. "Yet I feel they are unnecessary. I gave my word that——"

"You misunderstand. They are guardians. Perhaps you forget that you're not in civilization. In this instance my judgment is wiser than yours. Furthermore, these primitive people expect a certain amount of ceremony of those who pretend to be superior. Every lady of rank must have attendants."

She was not in a conciliatory mood. His tone, the faint irony in his speech, was a flame in which to forge her ire. She felt inclined to make a sharp retort, but instead she merely smiled, a smile that might have meant anything, and marched off toward Malay House, followed at a respectful distance by Ahmad and Pangku.

4

The world drew on black armor; steely chinks were the stars.

When Lhassa descended into the library, shortly before eight, she found Tuan Muda seated beside the lamp reading, and she turned and went on the veranda, remaining there, in spite of the mosquitos, until summoned to dinner. She would have preferred the congenial atmosphere of her room, but she knew that only by association with her captors (a unique expression! she reflected) could she learn their secrets.

To her surprise and annoyance Conquest was not in the dining-room. Tuan Muda seated her but gave no explanation of the former's absence; that is, not until she asked; then he replied, meagerly, that the Tuan Rajah—a faint inflexion in his voice as he pronounced the title—had been called across the river.

It was a meal of awkward silences. He seemed to tolerate her presence, that was all; and she pretended to ignore him. When it was over Lhassa felt profoundly relieved. Tuan Muda strolled outside, and she retreated to the library, where, from a window, she watched him vanish in the darkness under the trees.

She was more chagrined than angry, and for the first time in her life she deliberately planned to conquer a man—to satisfy her vanity. It was a cold, calculating desire aroused by what she termed gross indifference. She intended to reduce Tuan Muda to a state of thraldom, even at the cost of hurting him. In the preliminaries (she assured herself the campaign had only begun) she had failed, but defeat served to galvanize her will. Impulsively, as she stood there staring after him, she came to a decision: she would launch her offensive without delay.

She hurried out of the house and along the path he had taken. It led toward the crest of the promontory; she could hear the melancholy plaint of the sea. Ahead, stars flecked the shadows; shadows that seemed to melt and reveal Tuan Muda outlined half against the sky and half against the water. He was not aware of her approach until she was directly behind; then, evidently startled, he swung about. She was instantly conscious of tension; indeed, she half expected to see him stride off. But he did not. Nor did he speak. He merely ceased smoking and gazed at her inquisitively.

"Doubtless," she began coolly, "you know I'm not here by accident." She paused, then plunged. "I came to gratify my curiosity; in other words, to find out why you act as if I were a piece of furniture, an undesirable piece, at that. There's some definite reason. Are you afraid of women? Or simply rude?"

They stood less than a yard from the break of the cliff. Before answering, he flung away his cigarette; watched it roll over the rocks and vanish in a shower of sparks. Presently:

"Afraid?" he said. "No, I am not afraid of women. As to being rude: well, perhaps. But, in this case, it is because I am impatient. Name of God! You are in the way!"

"Am I responsible for my presence in Sadok?" she demanded, finding herself on the defensive.

"Indirectly. You chose to interfere. You knew you might suffer unpleasant consequences."

"Yes, I interfered—after a man had been murdered, a blind man; brutally strangled. I wanted justice; I intend to have it."

She felt that she was being ineffectual, banal. The man made an incoherent sound, following it with:

"Justice! I am amused. Justice at a price! Are you sure your clues are not false? No, and without being certain, you set about to send unfortunates back to Cayenne! God of Gods! A woman's inconsistency!"

"Cayenne?" The blood beat in her cheeks as she pronounced the name. "What do you know of Cayenne?"

He laughed; an ugly sound.

"I know," he declared, calm passion in his voice, "that it is called Le Guillotine Sec; that it is named well.... What do I know of it? Hah! One can learn much in five months! Five months—in Cayenne! Can you conceive what that means?... Torture! I thought I knew pity before I was initiated into the mysteries of La Guyane, but after I had lived a few weeks among those miserables I found that what I had called pity was not even altruistic sympathy! You ask what I know? Good! Listen well!"

He lighted a cigarette; tossed the match away. In the amber flicker his face was rigid as bronze. Something of his bitterness, a bitterness insurgent against long suppression, was transmitted to her with the shock of high voltage. She felt that he was opening a breach in the rampart.

"Cayenne!" he repeated, spat the word as though it were a curse. "To over half the world it means nothing; to a few millions, red pepper—grim humor, that, eh?—and to a small group of unfortunates it means, as Lamartine said, the Dry Guillotine!... Cayenne! God! Pestilence and death! Mother of a hundred nameless plagues! And the fever! Ah, the fever! Fièvre paludéenne! Can one ever forget that! In the harbor; the yellow rivers; crawling on the earth; fouling the very air! The governor, the warders and the Military Corps are so stagnant with it that it is of no consequence to them if convicts die because of inefficiency, because of insanitation and cruelty! Convicts! Canaille!"

As he spoke, the beat of the waves, below, seemed to sustain his passion.

"Indeed," he went on, "what is it to Monsieur le Gouverneur if the food of Convict Number Sixty-one Two Thirty-four is appropriated by a surveillant? Monsieur le Gouverneur is well fed! It is against the law to send new-comers to work in the forest until after six months; the sun is fatal unless one is inured to it. But why should Monsieur le Gouverneur be concerned if this law is evaded? It is cool in Monsieur le Gouverneur's residence! Name of God! In such a climate one must not excite himself! Ah, no! The heat! The fever! Indeed, no! One must control his emotions in the tropics! And, after all, what is a déporté or a dog of a relégué in the great abacus of life? A unit that can be easily replaced! Let him suffocate in Le Prison de Nuit! If he is insubordinate, give him the bagne and cachot! Vive la Guyane!"

He finished with that ugly laugh. She was facing him, and he seemed, standing with his back to the precipice, incredibly large, a being of such physical magnitude that his shoulders effaced a portion of sea and firmament. He dominated her, a principle instead of a man. It required a moment for her to adjust herself to the fact that he was an individual of flesh and blood. Even then she felt flippant when she remarked with studied indifference:

"You are capable of emotion, aren't you?"

In the blue half-light his features took on a cruel sharpness.

"Emotion!" he echoed. "What do you know of emotion? Of pity? Of hate? Pah! I went there hating the—I called them beasts, then—hating the unfortunates with whom I was to be imprisoned, but I soon discovered that my hatred was misplaced, that the beasts were those in authority who did nothing to improve the colony, but clogged it, as refuse clogs a sewer! Emotion! One can learn emotion in the Guyane! One can learn to pity, to hate, to suffer! Because of my former rank I was a libéré, a paroled prisoner, and I visited Ile Diable and Ile St. Joseph, and saw men, immediately after death, thrown to the sharks—not even decent burial! With chantiers I hunted the escaped; witnessed the spectacle of white men being beaten by bush negroes and Caribs! Yes, I suffered—in spirit. I suffered so much that now, when you speak of justice, of sending miserable wretches back to a living death, I am angered at your ignorance. That is why I am rude, why I am impatient. Are you satisfied with the explanation?"

She was not. She had penetrated behind one barricade only to find herself confronted by another, more baffling than the first. A phrase clung to her mind: "Because of my former rank...." What was his rank before he was sent to the penal colony? And why was he exiled? She realized she had not forced him to speak; he had deliberately revealed the fact that at one time he was confined at Cayenne—why?

"You plead your cause well," she said, determined to appear unaffected. "But what would become of civilization if your liberal principles were accepted?"

He gestured impatiently. "Do you call it liberal to crush a vile system? Convicts have the same fundamental emotions as other humans. Do they not love and hate? Are they not hungry and thirsty? Penal servitude as a means of punishment is primarily just, but when it is corrupted by inefficiency and cruelty it becomes a monstrous evil. Ah, God, if you could but.... But, no, you couldn't, you who have known so little pain. You say to yourself, 'A criminal is a criminal; let him suffer.' You do not take into consideration that there may be extenuating circumstances, that——"

"Wait," she interposed. "Are you pleading a cause—or your individual case?"

He returned her steady gaze for a moment, then shrugged.

"Who knows?"

"If you are being personal," she resumed, "then why not explain the extenuating circumstances? What have you done? Murdered? Stolen? What? Perhaps"—with irony—"I have been hasty in my judgment. If I knew——" She halted significantly. But he did not take the cue. "Is your defense so weak that you dare not present it?" Another silence. She pressed on ruthlessly. "Taking all into consideration, don't you think I am justified in condemning you? Silence is generally guilt, not fortitude. Two men are murdered, both my friends. Because I have discovered certain facts, clues dangerous to those guilty, I am abducted, brought here by a man who is either the Black Parrot or an associate, and I find you, admittedly an escaped convict, in his employ. Isn't the evidence damning? What do you know about the death of Dr. Garth in Bangkok? Or the death of Captain Barthélemy? What do you know about the Emerald Buddha and the other valuables said to have been stolen by the Black Parrot? What do you know about all these things? Surely a little—possibly a great deal. You may even be the Black Parrot himself! How do I know?" She paused; drew a breath. "But I intend to know. Do you understand? I am going to learn the truth, and, if circumstances justify it, see that you're sent back to Guiana!"

With that she turned and hurried away, not giving him a chance to speak again.

As she moved hastily toward the house she exulted in her dramatic departure. The thrill of her new knowledge did not permit analysis of the situation until she reached her room, but there, her dress discarded for the dragon kimono, she gave herself over to sane reflection.

Heretofore her thoughts of the Guyane had been attended by mental pictures of the creative activity characteristic of the penitentiaries in her own country, but now the word "Guiana," a word suddenly charged with grim meaning, suggested the horrors of the old Tasmanian prisons. And he, Tuan Muda, had been there. She shuddered; felt an involuntary pity for him. As she visualized him, standing on the cliff, bitterly recounting the wrongs he had witnessed, he assumed a picturesque rôle. Tuan Muda—the Black Parrot ... that shadowy, almost mythical creature who liberated prisoners from Cayenne ... who, having made some sort of agreement with Conquest (Conquest, the romantic), had the men transported to Kawaras ... to work on the sago plantation. A splendid impulse. But it was misdirected philanthropy....

She brought herself up with a jerk. Romancing. Nevertheless, a new vista had been opened, a view that placed Tuan Muda—and Conquest, too—in a different light. But, as always, there were flecks on the mirror. Dr. Garth, Barthélemy, and the green god. Could she be mistaken? She wondered, her conviction momentarily shaken; was it possible that she had made a monumental error? No. Ridiculous even to consider it. Her presence at Sadok was proof of the legitimacy of her suspicions. These men, Tuan Muda, Conquest, Garon, and their associates, were a menace to society. They must be crushed.

"I am going to learn the truth, and, if circumstances justify it, see that you're sent back to Guiana!"

She remembered her threat. She would keep it—if it was humanly possible. But a faint twinge of regret accompanied the resolution. It was pity, she told herself. Pity for an unfortunate. Only pity. What else?

5

In the daylight, Lhassa looked back with a feeling of unreality upon the encounter on the cliff. What Tuan Muda had told her (scant information when reduced to naked fact) did not bring her any nearer a solution of the puzzle; indeed, it added to its complexity. She felt, as she reviewed the last few days, that she had been drifting, waiting for something to occur without herself hastening its advent, although, upon summarizing the situation, she realized there was little she could do but wait. There was, however, the secret room to be explored. Conquest had called it the Djinnee's Cave, had said his past was locked in it. There might be another door, a hidden door, or a passage. The idea appealed to her fancy but not to her reason. Secret passages abounded in adventure tales; in reality, they were a negligible quantity. Furthermore, what sane purpose was there for such a passage? None. But that did not prevent her from imagining, with a certain pleasurable thrill, that there might be a masked entrance to the room.

Dressed in white and wearing her sun-helmet, she descended to the lower house and made her way into the Damascus room. She had an uncanny feeling that she was being watched as she lifted the Ispahan carpet that hung over the forbidden door. But she did not falter. She examined the lock; tried the knob; stared belligerently at the unyielding panels. The fact that the room seemed inaccessible added to her determination to enter.

From the Damascus room she moved outside, casually strolling around the house. The Damascus room, she discovered, was on the northwest corner, and, built out from the rear of it, was another room—obviously the so-called Djinnee's Cave. To her amazement, there were no windows in it. She stared, perplexed, wondering how air was admitted. Involuntarily she raised her eyes. The green-shingled roof slanted down, and on it was a skylight.

For some time she regarded the glassed rectangle, regarded it speculatively, then circled the house, studying the peculiar architecture. Her room was on the southwest corner of the main bungalow, and, but for the screen, one could step from her veranda upon the sloping roof. From there it was possible to crawl to the northwest corner, to another veranda, and drop from the eaves to the lower roof, that of the forbidden room.

She was so absorbed in her observations that she was not aware of Ahmad and Pangku until she returned to the front veranda. But she pretended not to notice them, and entered; they did not follow. Once more she went into the Damascus room. This time she stood for a moment just within the archway, peering through the division of the curtains, then, assured, approached one of the glass cases and removed a Barbary scimitar. Holding it behind her, she hurried into the hall and to her room, breathing a sigh of relief as she locked the saber in her trunk.

After debating how she would spend the morning, she selected a book from the library, and, with the inevitable Ahmad and Pangku at her heels, sought the spot where she had talked with Tuan Muda the night before. She recalled that Conquest had said the manager from the fort and the sultan, the latter attended by many warriors, would arrive during the morning; and she recalled also that a view of the harbor—river mouth, warehouses, and village—could be gained from the promontory.

Palms grew close to the cliff, and, seating herself in their shade, she opened the book. And did not read. Below, waves crooned on the sand, and, out over the water, birds were diving and crying. She could see tiny canoes on the river, tiny people at the godowns. She was distracted further by the two Malays, who were comfortably established at a respectful distance. Their presence annoyed her. Repeatedly she tried to focus upon the printed pages, and at length gave up, surrendering to the lure of the sea, the brilliantly blue sea with its gifts of dreams and fancies.

Toward noon the faint breeze fled; a burnt-orange sun glared from an aureate sky. The heat became unbearable, the shade meager, and Lhassa was at the point of retreating to the house when she observed a small crowd assembling on the bank opposite the landing-stage. The cause of the gathering, she knew, was the approach of the sultan and his escort. There were no canoes in sight. However, the stream turned a short distance from the mouth, thus precluding a view of its further reaches.

Presently the prows of several long boats emerged, seemingly, from the mangroves and other tropical luxuriance that bordered the river. The proas were larger than any she had ever seen, great black craft that leaped forward to the sweep of many flashing paddles. Each boat was filled with naked brown men and had a roofed compartment amidships. They swept into the river mouth; made for shore; sank their keels into mud. She watched the men disembark. From one boat stepped a figure in khaki and a cork helmet, evidently the manager from the fort. She did not see Conquest or Tuan Muda; wondered why they were not there.

Her interest in the pygmy activity waned, and she moved to the house. There she found Conquest, seated on the portico, surrounded by a number of Malays.

"Salazar and the sultan have just arrived," he said, rising. "I'm expecting them here any minute."

She nodded in her imperial manner. "I saw them. Isn't it good form in Kawaras to meet guests at the landing?"

"Not when the guest is a Malay Sultan," he replied, with a smile, "and the host Tuan Rajah. I sent Tuan Muda as my ambassador to greet Abu Hassan and inform him I'd receive him at the Astana. Will you wait and see the show?"

"No," she decided. Then, prompted by a sudden thought, inquired: "This manager—will he stay here while in Sadok? If so, I prefer my meals alone."

"Yes, he'll be at the house, but I assure you he's quite harmless."

She laughed; it lacked genuineness. "Oh, I'm not afraid of him; I simply don't care to meet another of your—what shall I say?"

He ignored the thrust and queried: "But surely you'll go to the feast to-night, won't you? You really shouldn't miss it."

She considered, temporizing, "Perhaps."

"I'll arrange an inconspicuous place. We'll leave the house about eight-thirty—I'll send Tuan Muda and Salazar ahead." He added, "It's to be in the village, you know."

She did not answer definitely, but gave him an exasperatingly cool smile, and ascended to her room. She had not the slightest intention of missing the festival....

The afternoon was dull, enervating. Soon after lunch Lhassa lay down and fell asleep, and when she awakened night had powdered the earth with black dust.

While she was dressing she heard a gramophone playing down-stairs. The tune was familiar—one that her grandfather used to play often in the great dim mansion in Washington. "Deep River" ... a sorrowful, plaintive strain that conjured a picture of the shrunken old adventurer who died with his secrets. Whenever she thought of him (a gray man sitting in the dusk) she felt cheated; felt that a relentless fate had prevented her from learning what she rightfully should have known. Now, as she listened to the music, a deep weariness came over her. It brought dissatisfaction, doubt, loneliness. She wondered if in the end, after she had probed the mysteries of Kawaras, the knowledge would be worth the striving. There would be always, insoluble, the mystery of her own life, the unexplained heritage of contrasted emotions bequeathed her by the impatient-mouthed man and the woman in the peacock shawl. She had no doubt that she would fulfil the mission she had taken upon herself. But then?... The gramophone ceased, and dissatisfaction, doubt, and loneliness passed. Humming lightly to herself, she threw a cape over her shoulders and left the room.

Conquest was waiting alone in the hall, as she knew he would be. A sudden, and almost fierce, hunger came into his face as she joined him: she wore a gown of mauve that emphasized her olive pallor.... Outside, an escort of Malays was waiting. Neither she nor the man spoke until they reached the warehouses; then he said:

"I've arranged for you to sit with some of the chiefs' wives. One or two of them speak English, and they'll explain the show. Malays, you know, are rather keen on touching hands, so you'll have to go through with that performance. They turn up the palms of their hands and bend their fingers, then you hook your finger-tips under theirs."

A long proa was waiting at the landing, and she was assisted into the stern. When Conquest was seated, the boatmen shoved off.

A vast silence lay on the river, intruded upon only by the regular splash of the paddles and the chik-chak of lizards on the bank. A warm wind drifted seaward from the mangrove swamps, laden with an odor half aromatic and half sickly. To her, it was the breath of the jungle, savage and voluptuous: and it challenged her. A restlessness seized her, a desire to follow the river through forests and over mountains to its hidden source.

The canoe glided toward a row of pile-raised houses that, in the darkness, seemed to float on the water. On the bank a torch wavered. Beyond it were other lights: flecks among blackly-etched shacks and foliage. The boat scraped a wharf, and Lhassa was helped out in the midst of a group of natives. Conquest took her arm and guided her forward between huts built on poles, to a large wattled and thatched building. A notched ladder leaned against a platform of split bamboo lashed together with ratan, and she climbed up awkwardly with the aid of two Malays.

Within, primitive lamps—bowls of cocoanut-oil in which floated flaming wicks—revealed a motley of color. The great hall was festooned with palm fronds and with yellow and crimson cloths. Around the walls, squatting on mats, were numberless natives. Lhassa, swiftly absorbing the scene, perceived a mixture of races: brown-eyed Malays, the men turbaned, and gaudy with beads and bright braid, the women dressed in silks, stiff brocades and embroidered garments; a few Arabs, picturesque in flowing robes; somberly garbed Chinamen; Dyaks naked but for waist-cloths and plumed with hornbill-feathers; Tanjong girls in blue cotton skirts and jackets of gold brocade, with wire rings about their legs; and strange, wild-looking warriors, carrying shields and spears, and bristling with pheasants' wings and egrets.

Conscious of the many stares that were upon her, she followed Conquest to the far end, where, in a corner, yellow-skinned Malay women were gathered about an improvised divan of draperies and cushions. She was confused, disconcerted, but she sank upon the silks with the air of a Roman empress. At a word from Conquest several of the women approached shyly. That was the beginning of a hand-touching ceremony that lasted two or three minutes. When it was over, Lhassa noticed that Conquest had taken a seat on a raised portion of the floor in the opposite corner. On one side of him, the side nearest her, sat Tuan Muda, and on the other, in shadow, another man, presumably the manager from the plantation. The latter's face was hidden behind Conquest's head, but she could see his hands, resting on the arms of his chair—hands warped with great knuckles.

There was a long silence, during which the three white men sat motionless and the natives stirred and shifted uneasily. Suddenly a gorgeously panoplied Malay—Lhassa knew by his dress that he was of high rank—sprang up from the pile of mats upon which he had been sitting and strode proudly, insolently toward Conquest. He halted in front of the white man and thrust out his hands. One of the women whispered to Lhassa that he was the sultan. After he had touched hands with Conquest, his chiefs and warriors followed the example. This Bornean etiquette, though impressive, was rather lengthy. In its wake came another silence.

Presently Conquest lifted his hand: that was a cue for the feasting to begin.

Long-robed Malays approached a corner where numerous brass bowls and bamboo platters rested on a cloth on the floor. Lhassa shuddered at thought of what they contained. However, the food, when served, proved more savory than she imagined. There were yellow rice, maize cakes, sago biscuits, mangosteens, custard apples, bananas, mangos, pomelos, wild oranges, sweetmeats, and bowls of cocoanut-milk. She ate the fruit and drank the milk with relish, but doubt as to how the other food had been prepared made it less palatable.

Several times she caught a glimpse of the man who sat on Conquest's right, only a dim impression of blistered skin and dark eyes; eyes that she felt upon her frequently. She did not see Tuan Muda glance in her direction once; often Conquest's hungering gaze sought her.

The feasting over, a larger space was cleared in the center of the hall. Again a hush swathed the assembly. Lhassa wondered whether it was customary or due to embarrassment on the part of the natives. A moment passed; then a Malay squatting at Conquest's feet rose and made a hasty exit, returning almost immediately, followed by a number of young men who carried musical instruments—bamboo guitars, gongs, and drums. The musicians seated themselves; struck a few notes; looked about inquisitively; began to play.

A song of the jungle, wistful and melancholy. From the gongs came a sound as of running water, from the guitars whining, wind-like notes, this strain given a certain rhythm by the drums. Lhassa had often heard the "jazz" of her country called jungle-music, had, herself, believed it an echo of savagery; but now as she listened to this cadenced plaint she realized that syncopation was not the voice of the wild nor even of its human inhabitants, whose music, though barbaric and at times frenzied, was never sophisticated.

From the musicians her attention was drawn to a file of young girls who were entering, walking slowly, sedately, their eyelids half lowered. Arms and cheeks were smeared with turmeric. Their skirts were short and beaded, their jackets hung with cowry shells. Brass anklets cling-clonged as they walked.

They formed rows in the center of the hall. The tempo of the music changed; became even slower; and the girls bent their wrists and arms in quaint little gestures, keeping in perfect time. This pantomime continued for a few minutes; then the dancers swayed right and left, languidly, and began a slow, undulating motion—a dance that in its dignity, its utter lack of sex appeal, reminded Lhassa of a temple dance she had seen in Siam.

Suddenly, almost abruptly, the music stopped. The girls remained in graceful postures for a moment; then with a whisper of silken draperies, with the clash of anklets and the patter of naked feet, they glided out.

Immediately following their departure, the Malay who acted as master of ceremonies rose and uttered what sounded to Lhassa like a volume of unintelligible words. As he resumed his seat she looked askance at one of the women, who leaned nearer and explained:

"He tell warriors to dance, Rajah Ranee. Dyak war-dance. Sea Dyaks make war on Kayan tribe; cut off heads; take them home to decorate kampong."

Twelve Dyaks, resplendent in fringe, beads, silver bangles, ivory armlets, and plumes, paraded out into the center of the floor. Some were armed with spears, others with parangs; all carried painted shields. The men, dividing into two groups, crouched. One of the musicians began to play on a gourd-like instrument that produced an eery, wailing sound. Drums throbbed. And the dance began.

To Lhassa, the first part was rather wearisome. The warriors leaped and jumped about, gesturing and grimacing at one another. But toward the end their movements seemed suddenly accelerated. Now (so ran the story) the rival tribes met in battle. Parangs drew arcs of fire; spears darted back and forth in luminous play. Now and then the dancers uttered war-cries: shuddering falsetto screams that scaled to a high pitch and broke. Something of their intensity was transmitted to the onlookers; fierce yells augmented with the cries of the whirling, gyrating warriors. The drums were beating with doubled rhythm, and through their throom-throoming wove the eery wailing, needle-sharp.

Throom-throom! Throom-throom!

Monotonously, maddeningly the drums continued. Lhassa found herself fascinated. As she stared at the sweat-glazed figures she felt vaguely frightened. She knew the savage mind was tinder for the spark of frenzy; and already there was a glow in many eyes. Particularly, in the eyes of a tattooed warrior who sat opposite her. Whose body was tense. Who gripped his parang so tightly that the veins were rigid on his hands. A sudden dread ran through her. There could be but one end if this went on. She glanced toward Conquest, hoping to catch his attention and signal him to stop the dance. But he was staring ahead.

Throom-throom! Throom-throom.

The drums seemed in her body, beating wildly; beating, beating as though to break their frail prison. She wanted to scream. Not because of the drums, but because of the tattooed warrior who sat opposite her. She had the mad illusion that she saw a spark in his eyes, that, as she saw it, the spark exploded——

The warrior shot up as though from a catapult. Flame-like his parang flickered before him. Coincident with his spring came the cough of a revolver. Lhassa saw Conquest on his feet; beside him was Tuan Muda, a gleaming cylinder in the Frenchman's hand. It was all swift, like the lightning print of a camera. In the center of the confusion—the chaos of naked arms and legs, of plumes and shields—flashed a figure in white. The man made a quick movement, and she glimpsed something yellow in his hands. She did not understand, knew only that the next instant the crazed warrior was jerked backward and fell against the white man's legs.

As suddenly as the disturbance broke, it ceased. The hall was quiet but for the tinkle of beads, but for the sharp crescendo of the sultan's voice. The dancers seemed to melt into the humanity packed against the walls, leaving the floor occupied by a grim tableau.

Standing near the dais where a moment before he had been sitting was he of the swarthy skin and dark eyes—a linen-clad figure towering above the warrior who, maddened by the dance, had sought to quench his passion by slaying. Around the native's neck was a roll of yellow cloth, the ends of which were gripped in the white man's fists. The latter—he was dark as a half-caste, with amazingly broad shoulders—stood there for a second, no more, gazing dispassionately at the body; then he released the improvised garrote and strode back to his seat. Instantly two Malays ran out and picked up the body, carrying it from the hall....

To Lhassa, the rest of the celebration was clouded. She remembered it afterward as a puppet show enacted behind a gauze drop. The master of ceremonies, at a word from Conquest, herded several bashful girls into the middle of the hall, and they went through the motions of an ineffectual pantomime. She scarcely noticed them, for her attention was focused upon the swarthy man, who, having resumed his seat, was invisible but for his black hair and his hands. At the conclusion of the girls' dance the affair ended—to her relief. The tiresome ceremony of touching hands was repeated; then Conquest approached her, and they were out in the cool darkness. Faintly, she heard him saying something about being sorry that the disturbance had occurred; faintly, she heard the rhythm of the paddles.

When they reached Malay House she hurried to her room, locked the door, and lay against the panels, aflame with excitement. Black eyes seemed to gaze into hers, dispassionately, as they had gazed upon the Dyak's body. She shuddered as she remembered the warped hands—hands that had garroted the warrior ... snapped his neck.... It was not plausible, she told herself, yet ... yet he might have been in Bangkok ... might have.... What had Conquest called him—Salazar? What swiftness, what brutal strength! He was no novice at garroting.

Her fingers trembled as she unhooked her dress. She did not go to bed immediately—the fever of conjecture was too hot—but, clad in night-dress and kimono, sat on the veranda, absorbed in thought. Sight of the sloping roof brought to mind the Barbary simitar and its purpose. To-morrow night she would make use of it, she decided; to-night she was too tired. She remained there until the excitement burned to ash; remained for nearly an hour.

As she crept into bed, yielding to its luxury, the thin wail of an owl rippled the stillness. It sounded like a Dyak war-cry. In the following quiet she thought she heard drums, drums that rumbled, crashed to a climax. She fell asleep wondering if they would haunt her, if in years to come she would hear them, rumbling, crashing.

6

Lhassa considered it wise to remain in her room throughout the next day. However, in the cooler hours she ventured forth, and, followed by Ahmad and Pangku, went out on the promontory to watch the sunset.

The Narcissus, riding at anchor, gleamed on the purple bay. It stirred in her a desire to be aboard, to order the canvas hoisted and sail away—anywhere. She did not wish to leave Sadok—not at this juncture, just when the doors of mystery were beginning to swing back—but she felt that a brief excursion at sea, with the wind whipping the canvas and the water singing under the hull, would buoy her spirits. For a reason she could not understand she was depressed. This puzzled and annoyed her, and she tried to account for it by saying to herself that the affair of the previous night had left a shadow upon her, but that explanation did not satisfy.

Darkness shut down, and she returned to the house. When she made a light in her room a gleaming object on the table winked at her. She stared; picked it up; examined it. Her first thought was that it was her automatic which for some inexplicable reason Conquest had returned, but she perceived it was not: it was a man's weapon, a forty-five-caliber nickel-plated revolver. She snapped it open. Cartridges in the breech. She wondered who had placed it there; wondered why. Strangely, the finding of it gave her an unwelcome sense of insecurity. It seemed significant: she was in danger, and some one was trying to warn and prepare her. Who? Conquest? Tuan Muda? Undoubtedly the latter. And, again, why? Intuitively she felt that Salazar was the reason. The elusiveness of this sudden danger, if indeed it existed outside her fancy, invited investigation. She resolved to speak with Tuan Muda.

Accordingly, when the dinner-gong sounded, she responded. She could not deny that she experienced relief when she found only Tuan Muda and Conquest below, and she voiced the query that sprang to her lips:

"Where is your pretty gorilla from the plantation?"

An instant after she spoke, a linen-clad figure appeared in the doorway of the library. It was the first time she had seen him at close range, and she observed thick, heavy lips and a broad neck, corded under the chin. His skin was pachydermal, his hair and mustache blue-black. The sheer physical strength of him was almost obscene. Fearlessly she returned his gaze, realizing that he must have heard. It was a tense moment, but she did not lose her poise. She chose what she considered the best means of escape from a difficult situation: she swept out on the veranda in majestic silence. On the top step she paused, a rush of blood mounting to her cheeks; then she hurried down and along the path to the promontory.

Her cheeks were still hot when she reached the cliff. She was chagrined, and somewhat alarmed, that Salazar had heard her call him a gorilla. She judged him, from the brief glimpses, to be saturnine, utterly without the essential quality of humor. That was a type she—well, not feared, but distrusted. Oppressed by a sense of something imminent and hidden in the atmosphere, she sat down, gazing at the sea. In the moonless night it had no allure; it was vast and terrifying; it separated her from civilization, from aid if she needed it. Aid. The word revolved in her mind. If there should come a time when she was in jeopardy, what would she do? To whom would she appeal? Coincident with the thought she saw, in fancy, the face of Tuan Muda, immobile features and scar that gave a touch of insolence. Why trust him more than Conquest? She wondered; and continued to wonder as she stared into plum-black darkness.

The sound of some one approaching sent a cold tremor over her. She got up quickly. As the steps crunched nearer a white blot among the trees took form. The man was not recognizable until he was within a few yards of her; then she laughed—involuntarily.

"How did you know where to find me?"

Tuan Muda made one of his expressive gestures. That was his reply.

"Is it wise for you to come here? Won't——"

"They have gone down to the river," he interposed. "I am to follow." A pause. "Perhaps I am a fool, but——To the devil with explanations! If I arrange for you to leave Sadok to-night, will you go?"

His abruptness, the suddenness of his offer, bewildered her. She stared at him searchingly.

"Will you?" he persisted.

To cover her confusion she assumed a cynical pose.

"I don't understand you," she said. "First you ignore me; then, out of a clear sky, you make an absurd offer. Of course you put the revolver in my room this afternoon; why?"

"You did not answer my question."

"Nor did you answer mine."

He gestured again. "Name of a pig! What does it matter why I put it there? Sufficient that I did!" But he added, "I am going on a mission up the river to-morrow."

A faint dread touched her.

"For how long?"

He shrugged.

She hesitated, then asked, "Who is this Salazar?"

Another shrug.

"What is he?" she pressed.

"Part French and part Spanish; perhaps a touch of the tar-brush."

"You knew him at Cayenne?"

"Questions! Questions!"

She shifted her gaze to the sea, reflecting upon what he had told her. He was going up the river to-morrow. What for? And she would be alone with Conquest—and Salazar. But he had said something else....