periences had been sufficiently out of the ordinary and harrowing so that he was not to be deceived by a cloak of friendliness. There was no denying that Davga had a magnetic personality. He was ugly to an extreme; the suggestion of great age was like a veneer glossing his face. But his voice had a quality, a drawl to it, chat submerged every other thing. All the deficiencies in his appearance were forgotten. In his tone was charm.
When the meal was ended they returned to the library which was his workshop. He had suggested a game of fantan, and the repulsive individual who had greeted Dick at the door made up the trio. His name was Yeh Ming Hsin and there was a suggestion of hauteur about him that was unbecoming in a servant. For example, he chose the most comfortable seat for himself. But this was no more surprizing than the fact that Davga offered him a cigar before bestowing one upon Dick Varney. Dick smiled to himself. What a contradiction, he reflected. He had been welcomed to the house like a king, but in the choice of a cigar he was subordinate to a servant.
As Davga took the cards to deal, the massive brass lantern above Dick's head gave way and crashed to the floor. Had it not been for the fact that he was stooping to tie a shoe-lace at the moment he most assuredly would have been killed. As it was he was unhurt, but the table was badly damaged.
Davga sprang to his feet. He was all apologies. "What a pity!" he cried. "What a pity!"
Dick laughed shortly. He was in a bad humor. "Do you mean it was a pity it missed my head?"
"Anyway," said Davga, 'Tm glad to see you can still joke. A fellow has to be pretty decent to take such an accident smiling. Of course I meant it was a pity the lantern fell at the precise moment when my guest was in the path of danger."
Dick shrugged his shoulders. "Why give the matter further thought?" he asked. "If you still wish to play fan-tan I suggest that you deal."
Later, sitting in the splendid room which had been assigned to him, Dick tried to decide on a course of action. He knew that Mortimer Davga had recognized him. That in itself constituted a peril. The fact that he was a friend to Dolores Cravat only served to double it. He knew that unless he was constantly on guard his life in that beautiful, sinister house would not be Avorth a farthing. The room was in darkness. Restlessly he rose and walked over toward the window. The moon was rising but it was still so low it cast the garden into greater shadow. The tree tops stood out in silhouette, etched sharply against the sky. The garden was a place of wandering wraiths and shadows. Was it only his imagination or was there really a form crouched beneath his window? His room was on the second floor and there were clinging vines ladder-like in strength climbing up the gray façade of the house. It would be quite an easy matter for an assailant to climb into his room and attack him while he slept. He could lock the strong mahogany door that led into the room, but what use would that be if he could not seal the window?
As he gazed down steadily his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. There was no doubt that a figure was crouching there, though now it crouched no longer. It slowly rose to its feet and mounted the vine-ladder for about a half-dozen feet. "Master," a voice whispered, "master."
It was the gentle voice of Wing Lo.
(Continued on page 141)
