CHAPTER XIII.
FAILURE AND SUCCESS.
STEELE waited a moment; then made out that Kwang-kung had withdrawn, seeming to be following his men and their captive. Then Steele hurled the stone with its message out into the open starlight so that it fell close to Reagan's feet. Reagan started back, his hand flashing its quick way to his hip. But when all was still again and he had waited briefly, he stepped forward and picked up the paper. He held it in his fingers; Steele could fancy the great dark eyes frowning at it. Reagan, a man who made mysteries for others, hated them for himself. Now, impatient and bold, he struck a match and read. Marvella's face was at his shoulder.
There was a sharp cry from Marvella; a grunt from Reagan; darkness. Then:
“Go to the house!” Reagan commanded sharply. And with his gun still in his hand ran forward, crashing through the bushes, headed for the spot where the struggle had been.
Steele knew he would push on for a hundred yards or more, and, ready for this move of Reagan's, left the shelter of the wood and stepped out into the driveway. Marvella saw him coming, and, with a second smothered cry, began running toward the house. He pounded on after her; he could still hear Reagan breaking through the shrubbery.
He overtook Marvella in a patch of shadows under a big maple; caught her by the arm, saying sharply:
“Wait. I am not Kwang-kung. Wait.”
In the half light Marvella's face looked dead white. He could hear her panting for breath. She grew still, staring at him with frightened eyes.
“Kwang-kung is here,” he told her sternly. “You know why. I am here, and in the interests of the law. And yet I am not after you. Do you understand?”
“No,” said Marvella. “I understand nothing. Who are you?”
“The jig is up for you, Marvella Nevil. Never mind who I am. You are not going to marry Stephen Carrington's millions. You are not going to get his check for the Beauty of Burma. You are not going to work with Tom Reagan as he plans. You are not going to get Carrington's jewels. You are going to do what I tell you!”
She gasped. If this man knew all this what did he not know?
“Kwang-kung!” she cried.
“You are afraid of Kwang-kung? Terribly afraid, Marvella Nevil?”
“Afraid? Heavens!” she muttered. “If he is here”
“I am afraid for you that he will have his jewel'”
“His jewel! If giving him that would only stop him! He wants me—me! He—he would”
“I can't talk long with you here and now,” he cut in, “I am going to give you a chance to save your own skin. It is Reagan I want. Will you play the game my way?”
Marvella stiffened. The first fright had passed; she was again summoning her resourcefulness. Steele sensed that.
“Your game is played out,” he told her sternly, and there was a ring in his voice which spoke eloquently to nerves on edge. “If I know the things I have told you, if I know how you fled from San Francisco without your luggage, if I know where the Beauty of Burma is even at this instant and Kwang-kung also, who, I give you my word, is near at hand, don't you think it wiser to throw in your lot with me than to hang to a crook who is also at the end of his string? It is up to you, Marvella Nevil. But I must have your yes or no now! An hour from now may be too late.”
She was visibly impressed and yet uncertain.
“What do you want me to do?” she demanded quietly.
“Let Reagan think you are still with him, seem to work with him, and turn him into my hands.”
“You think I am the double-crossing kind?”
“I know you are. I know your history, your work with Eddie Desmond and against him; how you played Jimmie Frayne.”
Marvella flinched.
“How do I know you will play square with me?” she asked.
“I have told you I am not after you. I am out to get Tom Reagan and, by Heaven, I am going to get him!”
“If I lose that ruby now I lose everything,” she cried suddenly. “And in another day”
“You would have had a big check for it? Well, there's no use crying over spilled milk and you are not the woman to do that. You have had times before when you had to make up your mind quickly. One of those times has come now. Will you stand in with me, or with Reagan?”
“With you,” said Marvella as indifferently as though they were discussing a mere trifle. And Steele felt that he had lost, for if he was ever sure of anything he was sure now that Marvella was lying, that she had not yet given up. She moved as though to go to the house. At the moment the front door opened; young Carrington stood there, looking out into the night. She drew back.
Steele saw. He wondered what brought Carrington out thus, still fully dressed. Had the boy an inkling that Marvella was false, that she had smiled not alone on him? Had he been distrustful like Reagan? Or was it just that a sense of unrest, of uncertainty and intrigue, which seemed to lay over Blake's farm now?
In any case Steele wished to know that Marvella was where he would not have to watch her for the rest of the night. Since he did not trust her, he judged that it would be as well if she could be persuaded to slip into the house and go to her room without having anther word with Reagan. Reagan would be coming soon
“You don't want to talk with Carrington any further to-night, do you?” he whispered. She shook her head. “Then let's slip around to the back of the house. You can go in at the back door and up the back stairs. And to-morrow I can tell you what you are to do to help me.”
Carrington came out into the night air, moved along the porch, was lost a moment, then discovered again as he lighted a cigarette. Already Steele was urging Marvella in a wide circuit to the rear of the house. They had just gotten to a spot a score of paces from the kitchen door, and were pausing briefly under the big fig tree when they saw a figure emerge from the edge of the orchard and move swiftly toward the house. Marvella recognized the man before Steele did. Her fingers shut like steel on her companion's arm; he felt a quick shiver run through her.
“Kwang-kung!” whispered Steele. “You see, I did not lie.”
The big Chinaman crouched and ran. He came to the rear wall of the house, moved along tight-pressed to the dark wall, stopped. He was under a dark window. They heard, rather than saw, that he was trying to climb up.
“Carrington's window!” whispered Marvella. “He knows”
“Carrington at least isn't there, Let him go.”
Kwang-kung drew himself up with his powerful arms. They could barely make out his blurred outline. He looked like some great cat rather than a man. Again Marvella shivered. Even then Steele wondered, as he had wondered many a time before, what had been this woman's experiences in China, in the ducal palace of Kwang-kung, to put such terror into her?
Kwang-kung was halfway through the window, one leg and his head thrust into the dark room. But never did he make the rest of that brief journey. Another form sped out of the shadows, raced across the strip of sward, and hurled itself upward. This man caught at Kwang-kung's foot and held on. He pulled the Chinaman halfway down, and at the same time heaved himself up. There was the sound of a blow, there was a strange, coughing grunt—and Kwang-kung came down, heavy and limp, and sprawled on the ground.
“Still!” commanded Steele. “He's mine now! You don't want to hang to Reagan after this!”
And Marvella was still. Silent, though a warning scream from her might have saved Tom Reagan a little longer; silent, though she must have known that Reagan had struck through his love for her.
For a while Tom Reagan clung where he was, craning his neck to listen, peering down to see that the form at his feet did not rise again. Then he pulled himself up and dropped noiselessly into the room.
“The nerve of him!” muttered Steele. “He means to come away full-handed.”
Steele left Marvella. But as he did so he whispered sternly:
“You are with me now. Run around quick and bring Carrington.”
With his revolver in his hand now, he moved quietly along the wall until he stood under the window, only a pace from the sprawling form. He saw a flash of light, and knew that Reagan was making a swift examination of the room. Darkness again. And then, through the window, came Tom Reagan. And Steele saw what it was in his hand. Reagan carried Carrington's two small leather cases.
Reagan dropped to the ground. And then, after all these years, came Billy Steele's chance. He started up, jammed the barrel of a revolver into his old enemy's side, and cried out:
“Hands up, Tom Reagan! I've got you”
Reagan whirled and struck with the same knife that had done for Kwang-kung. But Steele struck first, bringing his gun barrel down with a smashing blow on Reagan's bare head. The man's clutch on his knife loosened, the fingers tightened again.
Then Carrington came running to the rescue, Marvella at his heels. Reagan was still reeling; Steele whipped the knife out of his grasp, hurled him backward. Reagan fought wildly and in grim silence; Steele struck again, and then deftly slipped on the relaxing hands a pair of handcuffs. Carrington came racing to them.
“I've got you, Tom Reagan,” Steele said quietly. “Got you with the goods on. Carrington, pick that up!'
Carrington, in a sort of daze, obeyed.
“Mine!” he cried out. “My jewel cases! He had them?”
Reagan got slowly to his feet, and stood staring down at his locked hands.
“It's the first time in my life, Billy Steele,” he said with a curious note in his voice, “that I ever knew the feel of them. And so you did it, did you?”
He looked toward Marvella, who had drawn slowly closer.
She turned her back on him and ran quickly up the kitchen steps and into the house.