The Voice of Káli/Chapter 4

ATTERLY, an odd sense of unrest had come to the household at the Abbey. Bates, the chauffeur, had formerly lived at the gate lodge, where later, Parker, the gardener, had also slept. But latterly, by Mr. Van Dean's orders, accommodation had been found in the main building for both of these.

An undefinable air of mystery had begun to manifest itself from the time that the wealthy and distinguished American traveler took up his habitation there. Several servants had left, but had been replaced by others sent down from London. Mohammed Khán, the butler, and Parker, the gardener, were comparatively newcomers; and to the dignified Mohammed fell the duty of inspecting the grounds every night at dusk, particularly with regard to the efficiency of certain electrical burglar alarms, which Van Dean had installed early in his tenancy.

Where once in ancient days the moat had flowed, was now a stagnant, nettle-grown ditch, This had been rendered impassable by the introduction of a quantity of barbed wire, many thousand feet of which had been delivered at the Abbey, giving rise to sensational rumors in the neighborhood. Once the gates had been locked by Mohammed Khán, it would have taken a clever man to gain access to the Abbey grounds; for these gates were not only formidably protected, but were incorporated in the alarm circuit in such a way that anyone attempting to scale them would set bells ringing in the study.

The tall, white-clad figure of Mohammed Khán seemed most singularly out of place in these old English gardens and shrubberies as he made his rounds from point to point this evening. Once, at a door in an ancient brick wall, he had paused, listening. Then he stood aside, as Parker came out, carrying a basket of peaches.

The surly gardener gave him no word of greeting, indeed, scarcely glanced at him, but proceeded up the sloping path in the direction of the house. Mohammed Khán passed through into the orchard, closing and locking the door behind him, with one of the keys from a considerable bunch which he carried. He made his way round through the kitchen garden to the north wing of the house; and there he paused, locking in at a barred window.

A dull, crooning sound could be heard. The place was a sort of outhouse, connected by a covered way with part of the servants' quarters; dimly visible within, Wu Chang crouched upon the floor, caressing the wicked looking head of a lithe, cat-like creature, whose black-spotted coat of gold gleamed through the dusk. It was Van Dean's Indian cheetah; although fairly tame it was at times a dangerous pet. However, the Chinaman was crooning to it like a mother to her baby. Out of a cage on the wall, two little monkeys peered, chattering.

Indeed, not the least of the distinguished American's eccentricities was this minor menagerie which he had installed at the Abbey, practical zoology being one of his hobbies.

Mohammed Khán proceeded round the wing of the house and finally entered the library through the French windows. The room was empty, and the tall Oriental stood for a moment listening. Dimly he could hear voices proceeding from the study upstairs, among them that of Mr. Van Dean.

In the study, a small room so laden with relics of Van Dean's unusual travels that it resembled the apartment of a very untidy antique dealer, Paul Harley, leaning against the edge of the writing table, was speaking to Jim Westbury. Van Dean sat near him in a revolving chair, his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his hand.

“I asked you to come up here, Westbury,” “Harley was saying, “because you might as well know the truth about what's happened. But there is no occasion to upset the women.”

“What has happened?” demanded Westbury.

“Well,” said Harley, “whoever gained access to the study, just now, took nothing; probably hadn't time.”

“Poor old Rex disturbed him?”

“Exactly. I told Miss Gayford that Rex's death was an accident. Here's the truth.”

From his pocket Harley took out a long, slender dagger with a hilt richly-encrusted with jewels, conspicuous among them being a large green stone which glittered eerily. One startled glance Westbury took at the thing.

“Good Lord!' he muttered. “There's blood on it!”

“Naturally,” said Harley dryly. “The poor brute was stabbed to the heart. This thing was stuck fast between his ribs.”

He paused abruptly, placing the dagger behind him on the table as a sound of rapping came upon the study door.

“Come in!” cried Harley.

The door opened and Mohammed Khán entered. He bowed to Van Dean.

“Everything is in order, Sahib,” he reported. “The gate I could not lock until your guests had arrived.”

Paul Harley watched him intently while he spoke, but the man's handsome face was quite expressionless.

“Very good,” said Van Dean; “you may go.”

Mohammed Khán gravely retired. Harley thoughtfully relighted his pipe before resuming, the others watching him anxiously.

“Look!” he said, again exhibiting the dagger. “The sign of the Group!” He pointed to the green stone on the dagger hilt.

“The mark of Káli!” whispered Van Dean.

Westbury glanced at him, not comprehending.

“What is this?” he asked. “An emerald?”

“No,” replied Harley, “a green sapphire; and beneath it is an inscription. Roughly translated it reads, 'He who is summoned by the gods, listens and dies.'”

“The Listening Death!” said Van Dean hoarsely.

“But,” cried Westbury, “I can't fathom this thing. I mean to say”

“Westbury,” Harley interrupted sharply, “you don't realize what stakes we are playing for. You don't know that there is a great seething out there in the heart of the East, the surface indication of a threatening mystical fanaticism of such horribly devastating probabilities as the world has never witnessed nor heard of before. I must inform you, Westbury, that this house is the focus of a great conspiracy which may be backed by anything up to four millions of people.”

“Good heavens!” gasped Westbury. “But what are they after?”

“They are after me!” answered Van Dean.

“And incidentally, myself as well!” added Harley. “Van Dean, we are right up against it. Without any shadow of doubt, you have been traced. We must be ready for anything. I'm only sorry that there will be ladies here, tonight.”

“But you're not suggesting,” said Westbury rather wildly, “that we're in for a siege or something?”

“Hardly that,” replied Harley; “but this knife bears the crest of the most dangerous criminal in the whole world. I can give him no other description.”

“Who is he?”

“He is known as the Mandarin K. One of the secret council termed 'the S. Group.' Their' symbol, Westbury, is the mark of Káli; and those who fall foul of them, die.”

“A strange death,” whispered Van Dean; “strange and horrible.”

“For over a year,” continued Harley, “I have been searching for the nameless Mandarin, the genius behind the mark of Káli, with all the power of the British Empire to back me. In India, in China, in the Near East, I have had news of him, have met with his handiwork.”

He paused again, listening intently. A sound of someone playing on a reed pipe made itself audible, a weird dirge, rising and falling monotonously. Westbury turned startled eyes on Van Dean.

“What's that?” he demanded.

The American smiled rather wanly.

“It is only Wu Chang,” he replied. “Have you never heard him playing before?”

“Phew!” said Westbury. “No, I haven't! It quite startled me. Go on, Harley.”

“I am coming to my point,” resumed the latter. “Knowing what I know, that this man is a menace to the world, I would give all I possess to trap him. I thought that I alone stood between him and his monstrous ambitions, until”

“Until,” Van Dean continued, “an inquisitive "American blundered even further into the secrets of the S. Group! With the result that the Mandarin K”

“Is in England?” demanded Westbury excitedly.

Harley stared in silence at him for a moment, then, “Unless I am very much mistaken, was, tonight, here!” he corrected.

“What! In the house?”

“Yes, either the Mandarin K. in person or one of his agents.”

“But what on earth for?”

“For Van Dean's book,” replied Harley. And again he paused, listening.

From somewhere, miles away, perhaps from over the sea, came the dim rolling of thunder. Paul Harley nodded grimly. The storm he had foreseen was approaching; but Van Dean buried his face in his hands and groaned,

“I shall never live to see it published!”

“Pull yourself together, man!” cried Harley sharply. “There, in that safe, lies material which, when it is made public will wake up the white peoples of the world to a peril of which they have scarcely dreamed. Yet it grows and grows, like the storm over yonder. One day, if we fail, it will burst on the white races like a second deluge. Remember, nothing to the women.”

From his pocket he took out a revolver and tossed it to Jim Westbury. The latter, though obviously startled, succeeded in catching it.

“Loaded!” snapped Harley. “Keep it handy. Directly Captain Latham arrives for dinner, I want to see him alone. I should be obliged, now, if you would grant me the freedom of your study, Van Dean. I want to make a few inquiries.”

“Surely, surely,” said Van Dean, speaking in a weary voice, and standing up. “Here are my keys.” He laid them on the table. “Westbury and I will leave you.”

Westbury, turning the revolver over in his hand as though it were some rare curiosity, preceded Van Dean from the study. In the doorway the latter turned.

“I don't think I ever funked a danger I could see, Harley,” he said, “but this invisible watching”

“I understand,” replied Harley sympathetically. “But whatever you do, Van Dean, don't lose your nerve. The climax is yet to come.”