CHAPTER XI

I suppose they thought at the hotel that I was drunk. I might have been, for all that I remember. Sonya steadied me like a capable nurse and locked the door. I put the automatic on the bureau and wriggled out of my overcoat and found myself staring at my image in the mirror. There was no doubt that I had been through the mill. There was a gash on my scalp that was still bleeding. My shirt had been stripped off me. A sleeve of my coat was torn and bloody. My trousers were ripped at the knees.

“Casey,” Sonya said, “you look dreadfully.”

“You’re right,” I answered, “but you don’t, Sonya.” My hand touched something in the side pocket of my coat. I pulled it out with my flask. “I’ll feel better, maybe,” I said vaguely, “if I have a drink.”

“You’ll feel better,” Sonya said, “if you let me wash you, Casey,” and turned me gently around. She was looking at me respectfully. “There are not so many people who could have left the Gaiety Club tonight,” she said. “And I know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes,” I said soberly. She was standing beside me, as untouched and unmoved by what had happened as though it were all a part of her life. “I’m afraid you know too much,” I said, and ended with an inconsequent question:

“Are you glad they didn’t get me, Sonya?”

Her answer was simple, entirely devoid of emotion.

“Do you think I’d be here, if I weren’t? I never thought that I should allow sentiment mix itself with this. I shouldn’t have. It may be the end, perhaps, but I don’t seem to mind. I’ve seen members of my own family shot like dogs, but I couldn’t let them kill you, Casey. It was too ugly, I think, with me a part of it. You’d better lie down, Casey. I’m going to fix your arm.”

There comes a time when events are moving so fast that one’s mind becomes immune to new impressions, which I suppose is the reason that everything seemed natural. I could not think it was odd that Sonya and I should be there alone. It was what I had wanted. It seemed inevitable that we must reach some final understanding. Who was she? What was she? I knew that I would find out that night.

I stood there, holding my old flask. The leather case was as battered as myself.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I think I’ll have a drink. Perhaps you’ll have one too?”

Then I saw that something about her had changed indefinably. I noticed, as I tugged at the cup on the bottom of the flask, that her glance seemed sharper, suddenly anxious.

“No,” she said. “First you let me fix your arm. Casey, please put down the flask.”

Her voice was sharper, like her eyes.

“Why?” I asked. There was something different between us.

“Your arm,” she said, “it may be bad for you.”

She was not telling the truth and I knew it.

“What’s the matter with you, Sonya?” I said. “This won’t hurt my arm.”

I yanked off the bottom of my flask as I said it but I did not take a drink. Instead, I stared at the bottom of the cup—at a bit of rice paper in the bottom about the size of a paper for rolling cigarettes, with writing upon it in Oriental characters. I saw Sonya’s hand move toward it and I drew the cup away. I was learning what she wanted faster than I thought I would.

“No, you don’t,” I said. “So that’s your little game! No, Sonya, you’re a nice girl, but you don’t get it now.” I picked up the automatic from the bureau. “Drop your handbag, Sonya!” I said. “We don’t want any more trouble. We’re going to get the truth right now.”

A part of the truth had already come over me, stunning me completely. I knew what that paper was in the bottom of my flask. I had never put it there.

“Drop your handbag, Sonya!” I said again. “You’ve done a good job but you haven’t done it quite well enough. It looks as though I have the message now. Not that I can read it,” I added, “but perhaps before we’re through you’ll read it for me; and Commander Driscoll can check you up. He’s here in the hotel. Do you hear me? Drop that handbag, Sonya! I don’t want you reaching in it for a powder puff. I’m going to call Commander Driscoll now.”

“No,” she said, “no! Don’t do that. You mustn’t!” and her handbag dropped out of her fingers to her feet.

The nervous stimulation which had buoyed me until then had not left me. I could see Sonya with part of my mind but the rest of me was back in the cabin on the Imoto Maru. I had to admire the astuteness of that man named Ma, who had thought of the cup on the bottom of my flask. Where would have been a better place to have left a message to a man like me than where he must have chosen before he had been discovered? Where would there have been a place where others would have been less likely to have discovered it? It was Ma’s bad luck that I had never used the bottom of the flask until that moment. He had not counted on my unnatural abstemiousness. That was all.

“No,” said Sonya again. “Casey, please, you mustn’t. That was why they wanted to kill you. They wanted that flask, Casey. I had to ask you to bring it—Do you remember?”

I nodded to her agreeably. “And that’s why you wanted to save my life, I suppose,” I said. “I’m grateful to you, Sonya.”

“No,” she said. “It wasn’t entirely that. Casey, we must think. Let me see that paper.”

I put the paper back in the cup again, snapped the cup back on the bottom of my flask and put the whole in my hip pocket. Then, bending quickly, I recovered Sonya’s white handbag from the floor. I found, as I expected, a small pearl-handled automatic in the middle compartment of her bag.

“You won’t need that tonight,” I said “and we’re going to talk about this paper; but you won’t need to see it.”

She did not seem surprised by my answer, not offended. “Casey,” she said, “don’t you think I’d better fix your arm now? It’s beginning to bleed again.”

“Stay where you are,” I told her. “Right in that corner of the room. I’m not going to give you the chance to knock me over the head, Sonya.”

She stood watching me irresolutely. “Don’t you trust me, Casey? Wouldn’t you, if I promised you?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t see why I should. Do you?”

She moved her white hands in a sort of hopeless gesture. “Casey, someone’s got to help you. Someone’s got to wash your head. Someone must bind your arm. I—I want to, Casey.”

“You’re a beautiful emotional actress,” I said. “Don’t act any more. Sit down!”

She began to cry, and I knew she was not acting then. “Casey,” she said, “Casey, please, I swear I only want to help you.”

I felt my resolve slipping, moved by that appeal. There was no doubt that I needed someone to help me.

“Very well,” I said. “But mind, I’m watching you, Sonya.”

As a matter of fact, she did it very well. She took me into the bathroom and stripped me to the waist. She washed out the wound with hot water—a flesh wound, I found it was, hardly more than a graze, which would probably make my arm stiff and wretchedly sore by morning, and might also give me a degree of fever; but I doubted if it would be much worse. Then she washed my head and fetched me a clean shirt from my bag.

“You feel better now?” she asked.

I felt a great deal better and I told her so. “If you’d be straight with me,” I ended, “I’d like you, Sonya.”

We had seated ourselves facing each other and the room was very quiet. We seemed like old friends, and perhaps we were old friends, for nearly every semblance of pretense was gone from us.

“I’ll have to tell someone,” she said finally. “I’m going to tell you, Casey, because I’m all alone. I’m going to tell you and beg that you may help me.”

“Is that straight?” I said. “Because that’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

She answered directly. “Yes, that’s straight. I swear it. You see,” she sighed, “I don’t suppose that my mind is as quick as some people’s. I’m rather new to this, Casey. I wasn’t really brought up to it. You see, Mr. Moto guessed this noon that there was something in the bottom of that flask. I was there when he guessed it.”

I forgot the throbbing pain of my arm and the dull ache of my head. “But how did he guess it?” I asked. “Have the Japanese got second sight?”

Sonya smiled, and her eyes, as they met mine, were no longer hard. “Oh, no, not that, but Mr. Moto is clever, very clever, Casey, in some ways. He has to be, in work like his. This morning I was with him as he sat thinking, and he told me what he thought. I think he rather likes me, Casey.”

“Oh,” I said, “does he?”

She continued, ignoring my remark: “You mustn’t blame Mr. Moto. He has a very difficult time, and sometimes he seems such a little man to do everything and arrange everything. When the ship came in, he went to the Japanese Consulate and began pacing up and down a little office, trying to reconstruct what might have happened. He began with the belief that you had not seen a message or destroyed it; then he reviewed the entire search of your things. He was completely satisfied that every inch of your cabin, bags and clothing had been searched. He was sure of that because, when you left the boat, he went through everything a second time. He was sure the clothing you wore had been searched thoroughly. There was only one thing left—your flask. They had opened the top of the flask. They had seen it was full of whisky. A message inserted in a pellet might have been dropped into the whisky, but they had shaken the flask and nothing had rattled. It was only this morning that it occurred to Mr. Moto that there might be a cup fitted onto the bottom of the flask. But what you might term the process of elimination, that cup was the only place left where a message might be left. You had taken the flask with you when you jumped overboard, but he was quite certain you did not suspect the existence of a message. He had watched you carefully when your cabin was being searched. You had given no sign of interest—not the flicker of an eyelid—when they lifted up the flask. That’s about all, Casey. He was right, wasn’t he? You must admit that he was clever.”

I could not help but admire the astuteness of Mr. Moto—an alarming astuteness—and the complete logic of what she said convinced me that she was telling the truth; but I needed more facts than that. I had reached the end of my patience, and for once in all that transaction I had something which was close to being the upper hand.

“That’s good as far as it goes,” I said. “Mr. Moto was a brighter man than I am. Do you know Driscoll, of our Naval Intelligence, Sonya? I had a quarrel with him this morning, but I’ll go to the telephone and call him unless you’ll tell me what this message is about.”

Sonya leaned back in her chair, watching me almost sleepily while her hands rested limply in her lap. “Very well,” she said, “I’ll tell you,” and then she laughed in that light way of hers, as though she could detach herself from the seriousness of the moment and be genuinely amused.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked.

“You,” she said. “Excuse me, Casey. You may not understand why it strikes me as funny that anyone like you should be involved in this, and that I should be here compromised with a strange American. You are so different from what you ought to be, to appear in such a situation. You aren’t devious. You’re honest, Casey. You have no real awareness of the intrigue around us. Don’t be angry with me. I’ll tell you. I don’t suppose you even remember my last name.”

“Karaloff,” I said.

“But it doesn’t mean anything to you, does it, Casey?”

I shook my head. “Only that it’s your name, Sonya.”

“And the name Alexis Karaloff? Think—have you ever heard that name?”

I shook my head again and she shook hers back at me mockingly. “You never heard of Alexis Karaloff? Or of his work with crude petroleum? Or of his improvements on the Burgeius formula? Yet here you are. Even Wu Fai-fu thought you must have some idea. He told me that he asked you.”

“I’m glad you think it’s funny. Just who is Alexis Karaloff?” I asked.

Her expression grew set. “Your tenses are wrong. He was my father, Casey—a kind father. I heard he was dead today.” She paused a moment and caught her breath. She was tragic, sitting there, but not intentionally tragic.

I said. “I’m sorry, Sonya,” and put my hand over one of hers.

“Thank you,” she answered, “We’re used to death in Russia, Casey. I have suspected he was dead for quite a little while. But now I know, it’s worse than I thought. It leaves me all alone except perhaps—”

“Perhaps what?” I asked her.

“Except perhaps for you. I’m not lying, Casey. You and I are both alone. I hope you’ll understand what I tell you. You would, if you knew Russia; but you don’t. I hope you’ll not think it is too fantastic. You’ve probably heard so many Russians telling tales of greatness. The illusion of old grandeur grows on one, when one has not got it left. But this is true, Casey. The Czar was my father’s patron. My father was a naval inventor. He was interested above everything else in oil as a fuel for naval vessels. He was very loyal to the Czar. I was a little girl then—too little to remember much. At the time of the Revolution he left Russia. My mother was murdered in the streets. He took me to Harbin after the Kolchak fighting. He was too much involved in the White Russian army ever to cross the border again.… Have you ever seen Harbin?”

“No,” I said. “I had hardly heard it spoken of until I came to the Orient, Sonya.”

She sighed and closed her eyes and then opened them. “Harbin,” she said softly. “I wish you could have seen it when things were going well. It’s my city, where I spent my childhood, Casey—a strange city of exiles; but it was gay. We Russians were always gay even when we were sad and beyond all hope. If Harbin were what it used to be, it would be the place for you and me. You should have seen the cafés and heard the singing. You should have seen the hospitality. No one thought of tomorrow in Harbin except to think of Old Russia coming back. Everyone was an aristocrat.” She smiled slightly. “Whether he was or not, you understand. Harbin—the boats on the Sungari River—you should have seen the boats. You should have seen the lumber and the grain. We lived in Harbin, you see.” She paused and, as her voice stopped, illusion stopped with it. I had been able to understand vaguely something of the life she was trying to tell me, when it was expressed in the soft modulation of her voice; but when she stopped, we were back in the hotel bedroom, no longer in Harbin.

“Go on,” I said, “if we’re getting anywhere.”

“Harbin,” she said; her voice was softer. “Have you ever heard it called the Paris of the Orient? It is the last city of my people, the émigrés from Russia. You see the rest of us scattered here in China—Russian policemen, Russian women in Chinese clothes begging on the street, Russians dressed like coolies working with the coolies on the docks—but it was gayer in Harbin. There was quality and rank. Old generals, admirals, scholars, ladies and gentlemen from the old nobility. Why, our merchants could even compete with the Chinese store-keepers in Harbin. You should have heard us talk, Casey. There was great talk in our parlors because there was always hope, you see. Red Russia could not last. It was incredible that it could last. We were always plotting for a coup, building castles in the air. We were always thinking of how to seize some part of Siberia. Old officers would talk of smuggled arms and of ways to set up a Russian kingdom in Mongolia or around Bakal. We are fine people for theories, Casey. We can make them logical through self-hypnotism. You should have heard all the names that were mentioned—secret correspondence with this one and that one. I suppose it was the same in France when the old régime fell down. They would whisper about Horvath and Kolchak and Semenov. They would be buoyed up by hope. There would be talk of some mythical help from Chang Tso-lin, the old marshal, you remember, and, later, the young marshal. Chinese are like us in that way. They all of them love to talk. Then later there were dealings with ‘little’ Hsü, who was darting over Mongolia in his motor cars. And then there was that impresario, the Buddhist Baron Ungern Sternberg. Oh, I can give you lists of names. That was the atmosphere I was brought up in, Casey—sitting in my father’s house, listening to him talking as he pored over maps and figures with strangers late at night. I have never known half of the logic of his theories. Perhaps they made no difference. Perhaps—I wonder, Casey—perhaps my father did not believe them. After all, he was a scientist who spent most of his day with his drawings in his laboratory, for he had brought some money out of Russia. I am not sure. Perhaps he did believe them. If we are unhappy, we always try to imagine something different, don’t we?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’ve imagined a lot in the last few years. Do you mind my saying this doesn’t sound practical, Sonya?”

She smiled inquiringly, as though she did not understand. “Practical?” she said. “Of course, we are not practical. Have you read your literature; have you heard our music, Casey? Not much of it is practical but some of it is beautiful. We are creative artists, Casey, but my father did one thing that was practical back there in Harbin. He invented a process of treating crude petroleum, and an especial burner, which would make one gallon of oil do the work two gallons had done before. You see the implication, Casey? Japan did, when he took that invention to Japan. It meant that a warship would have twice the cruising radius that it ever had before. Can you wonder that Japan was interested? Can you wonder, Casey? My father did that—Alexis Karaloff did that. He may have been a visionary but he was a scientist. I think his name will be remembered for a long while after you and I are dead.”

I tried to get my thoughts together. At last the light was dawning on me. “Do you mean that the Japanese navy is going to have a cruising radius twice as great as ours?” I said. “Why, that’s going to eliminate coaling stations. It’s going to change every base. If there should be a war—” I stopped.

At last I understood why Driscoll told me the matter was important. It still seemed hardly credible that such an invention should not have come from our own laboratories instead of from a city called Harbin. If she was telling the truth, and I believed she was, any nation in the world would have struggled for such a discovery.

“Has Japan got his plans?” I asked. “Tell me what happened, Sonya?”

“I’m going to tell you, Casey,” she answered. “I’m going to tell you, because it seems the only thing left to do, and because my father would have agreed with me, I think. He did not care very much about himself. Do you think many people do, who live in a world of intellect? He really cared for only two things—the abstract complications of ideas and the Russia of the old régime.”

“Didn’t he care for you?” I asked.

She considered a moment before she answered. “As much as he could for any human being, I think, but his opinion of the human race was not very high, Casey. Never mind about that. He appreciated the value of that invention and its significance and implications as keenly as any industrialist, without ever wishing that value for himself. He wished it to further his fixed idea. You guess the idea, perhaps? I am sorry that I have no particular knowledge of its details, but at any rate, they do not matter. It was another one of those whispering plots of my people, but this time I think it had some basis, slight as it might be. For once, they were not pinning all their faith on the dreams of some adventurer. Yes, there was a semblance of reality this time. It had to do with the concentration of Red Russian troops on the Manchurian border, when Japan became interested in the adventure of the State of Manchukuo. It seemed to my father and his friends that Japan might welcome and even might help White intervention along the border by supplying arms and money. There was one of those usual plans, perfectly logical down to the last detail. As I say, I do not know it. I only know that my father brought me with him down to Tokyo and that he was greatly excited. He offered his formula and his drawings to the Japanese Government in return for their support of a White adventure; and they accepted. They had reason to accept. He was very happy until he found out that the political balance had been changed. First the Japanese hesitated to supply arms and then they entirely refused. My father felt that he had been betrayed. He left Tokyo and started for Harbin, as though Japanese troops and spys were not everywhere in Manchuria. He was allowed to leave Tokyo readily enough, because he had already handed over his drawings. It was some days later before they understood the plans were not complete. My father had taken the page of the chemical process back with him to Harbin and nothing was of any use without it. He was planning to sell it elsewhere, of course. He even began starting negotiations with America through the agency of the man you’ve seen—Wu Lai-fu. But you can guess the rest of it. This may not be the sort of life you’re used to in America, but believe me, there is plenty of it here, where all life is unsettled, where there may be an explosion at any time. That is a period which develops men like Mr. Moto and Wu Lai-fu, but you can understand what happened.”

“Perhaps,” I said; “but you’d better tell me, Sonya.”

She leaned back wearily and closed her eyes. “The Japanese were not going to let such a secret as that go, and I don’t blame them much, do you? They caught my father in Harbin. They made him a political prisoner in the new capitol of Manchukuo—high-handedly perhaps, but they had reason to be high-handed. They held him while they searched for papers in his house, but they could not find what they wanted. Then they approached me. I had received my education in Tokyo, you understand, and I have many friends among the Japanese. I was approached and asked politely if I could not help in this hunt for the paper, and there was a hint that my father might not live if it were not found. I wanted him to live because I loved him, but perhaps you can imagine now why they did not find the paper. I had no intimation of it until we were together on that ship and there was a dead man in your cabin.”

“Perhaps I could guess,” I answered, “but you’d better tell me, Sonya.”

“It was Ma,” she said. “Ma was my father’s old interpreter and servant, a very faithful, absolutely reliable man devoted to my father, as Chinese occasionally become devoted to their masters. I have know him ever since I was a little girl, and he would have died for us any time. As a matter of fact, he did die, didn’t he?… What happened is clear enough now. My father, when he knew he was going to be taken, gave Ma that formula and I rather think told him to try to sell it to America. Ma escaped with it but was afraid to have such a thing on his person. He left it somewhere in Manchuria. The message, I think, was to tell us where that paper is.” She paused as though she expected some response from me, but I did not answer her. “Then I heard the rest of the news today. It came from Wu Lai-fu. He has all sorts of devious connections. I think he is one of the Chinese who is secretly financing bandits in Manchuria. There is no penny-dreadful novel more lurid than parts of China and Manchuria these days. He had word, and he tells the truth, that my father was shot, trying to escape. I’ve been telling you the truth too, Casey. And that’s about all there is. I have told you because I want you to help me. I owe nothing further to Mr. Moto.… Will you show me what is written on that paper in your flask?”

I paused awhile before I answered, trying to make up my mind. I paused, but I believed every word she said, however incredible it may sound as I have set it down on paper. Words in black and white about such matters as I have tried to describe do not convey any great basis of credibility, because the time and place do not go with those words or the personality which spoke them. There is no way which I know for me to convey the impression of her voice, or for me to describe the restlessness of Asia, since both of these are wholly indescribable to anyone who has not known them. I can only say again that I knew she told the truth. I knew it, if only from the way her story fitted with the small details I had seen. Her rôle was clear at last and Mr. Moto and Driscoll and even Wu Lai-fu came into place, cleverly and perfectly. More than anything else I knew that she was telling the truth because I liked her, and I have found it pays to trust quite implicitly to one’s instinctive likings.

“Sonya,” I said, “I think you’re being straight with me.”

“I am,” she said. “I am.” And her fingers gripped my hand. The pressure of her fingers reminded me that I had been holding her hand all the while she was speaking.

“If you see this message,” I asked her, “what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find that paper, if you’ll help me, Casey.”

“If you find it,” I asked, “what will you do then?” She was no longer candid. She did not meet my glance.

“We’ll talk about that later,” she said. “The point is, we both want to find it, don’t we? Will you take out your flask?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’ll trust you, Sonya. Can you read Chinese?”

She nodded, and I drew the flask from my hip pocket. I snapped the cup off the bottom and handed it to her.

“With my compliments,” I said.

She took the cup and lifted out the paper very carefully between her thumb and finger and bent over it, first thoughtfully, then incredulously.

“Why,” she exclaimed suddenly, “why—”

“What’s the matter, Sonya?” I asked her.

Her eyes were fixed on mine—bewildered candid eyes. “Ma never wrote this,” she said. “I know Ma’s grass characters. He taught me when I was a little girl. Someone else wrote this—not Ma!”

There was a silence while I tried to think. Again I knew that she was telling the truth, though the whole matter was becoming too complicated for me to understand.

“Are you sure?” I said.

“Yes,” she answered, “I’m sure.”

“But who else could have written it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Let me try to think.” She sighed and frowned in her perplexity and said again, “Let me try to think.”

It seemed to me that it would do no good for me to help her because I was entirely beyond my depth.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’ll take a drink while you’re thinking,” and I reached and took the cup away. Then I unscrewed the top of the flask. I was just about to pour a drink into the cup when my glance fell on the gold-washed bottom.

“Sonya,” I said. “Look! There was another paper here. Look down at the bottom of this cup. You can see where it was lying. A corner of it’s been stuck to the bottom. Look!”

She reached for the cup and drew in her breath sharply. She was bending over it, staring. Dimly, yet clearly enough to see, there was the outline of where a similar bit of paper had been lying. The presence of a little moisture had caused its edges to adhere slightly to the bottom of the cup. Someone had pulled it out hastily, a little carelessly. It was different from the paper in her hand. Her eyes were wide, her lips were set in a thin straight line.

“Casey,” she asked, “did you do that?”

“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”

“Then,” her voice dropped unconsciously to a half-whisper, “take that cup and wash it very carefully. Dry it with a towel. Don’t let your fingerprints stay on it. Someone has taken that message and left this one, and no one else must know.”

“But who?” I asked. “I wonder who.”

“We’ll have to find out, Casey,” Sonya said. “We’ll have to try to—you and I tonight. After all, who would have done it, Casey? Not Mr. Moto. He only guessed this morning what was in there. Who else was there? You took that flask with you when you jumped into the river.”

I had never tried to play the rôle of Sherlock Holmes before. “Well,” I said, “let’s try to think. Suppose you read me that message, Sonya.”

She looked at it again. “Why, that’s very queer,” she said.

“What’s queer?” I asked. “You’d better read the message.”

“It doesn’t say much,” she answered, “but it’s enough to understand. It says ‘The house of Ma Fu’ Shan at Fuyu.’ That’s what the message says, of course, but that isn’t what is queer. Ma Fu’ Shan was our man Ma’s elder brother, Casey. I’ve seen him often enough. His house is not at Fuyu. Ma has often told me where he lives—at a farm village near the hills, a few miles outside of Chinchow. Casey, that message has been changed.”

“Let’s forget about that for a minute,” I said, for I had a flash of intuition. “Whether it’s been changed or not, I know where the thing is, Sonya. It’s at Ma’s brother’s house. Ma left it there.”

“But who changed the message?” she asked me. “Why?”

And then I had another thought. My mind had leapt dazzlingly from inconsequence to fact. In my excitement, I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Listen,” I said, “have you thought of Wu Lai-fu? Listen, Sonya, he’s as clever as Mr. Moto, isn’t he? Why shouldn’t he want this for himself? Listen, Sonya. I think I can tell you what’s happened.”

She looked incredulous but I knew that I was right. I had remembered something which had happened back in that room of Wu Lai-fu’s.

“I remember how his manner changed toward me when he was talking to me,” I said. “He had someone look inside the cup of this flask, Sonya, as sure as I’m alive. When he was talking to me. I know he did. Can’t you see? It was his idea to have that message changed. He knew that Moto would be after me. He knew that sooner or later Moto’s mind would come to that flask. He wants Moto out of the way, Sonya, because he wants this for himself. He’s probably sent someone off already.”

Sonya looked thoughtful and then the lights were dancing in her eyes. “Casey,” she said, “that’s clever of you. I never thought it possible that you could think like that.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I didn’t either—if you want to know.”

Sonya moved, and I felt her shoulder tremble. “You’re right,” she said; “you’re absolutely right. It’s Mr. Wu. He’s sent someone there already, probably by train this noon. It’s too late for us now.”

“Wait a minute,” I broke in, for I had another idea. “I don’t know anything about this country. How long does it take to reach this place, wherever it is, by train?”

Sonya frowned again. “Quite a time, I think. You would have to go by way of Tientsin and through Shanhai-kwan.”

“That means nothing to me,” I said. “Would anyone starting this morning reach there by tomorrow noon?”

Sonya laughed. “Your ideas of rail travel in China are too American, Casey. It would take him another day, at least. But he’s ahead. We can’t catch up to him now.”

“Can’t we?” I said. “Have you forgotten what I am?”

“No,” she said seriously. “I think you’re splendid, Casey.”

“Not that,” I answered. “I’m an air pilot, Sonya. I doubt if Mr. Wu has thought of sending a man by plane.”

She leaped quickly to her feet. “Casey,” she whispered, “Casey, do you know where to get a plane?”

I nodded. “I know where I can try. And if you know where this village is on the map, I can set you down there tomorrow morning. How far away is it, do you think?”

“Five hundred miles,” she said.

“All right,” I said. “There’s no use starting now. We can’t make it in the dark.”

Then her excitement left her. “Casey,” she said, “Casey dear, there’s no use talking this way. We can’t do it at all. Moto’s men are watching this hotel. We’re cornered in here like two little rats.”

“Oh, no, we’re not,” I said.

Now that I had thought of the plane, my mind was running smoothly. Now that there was no longer mystery, I could deal with actual facts. “If you do what I tell you, Mr. Moto will lose all further interest in us tonight. Sonya, are you listening to me? Get Mr. Moto on the telephone. Tell him to come up here. Tell him you’ve got the message. It was in the flask. Tell him I’m glad to give it to him. It’s no affair of mine. There’s the telephone. You go and tell him, Sonya.”

Sonya stood an instant thinking and then she said, “Casey, I think you’re very clever. I mean it. You’re brave, you’re quick. I should be glad to go anywhere with you, Casey, anywhere on earth.”

“Thanks,” I answered. Her words had made my own words unsteady. She had not been acting when she said them. We were friends. “The same goes with me, Sonya.”

And she walked to the telephone and lifted off the receiver.

“Remember,” she said quickly, “clean out the inside of the cup, Casey dear. And you’d better show it to me when you’ve finished.”

Not being able to understand Japanese, I have never known what Sonya said. As a matter of fact, I did not mind any longer, because I trusted her. We were like very old friends as we waited for Mr. Moto.

“You must put on a tie, Casey dear,” she said, “and put the flask back in your pocket. I want you to look nice when Mr. Moto comes. Perhaps it would be just as well to put those pistols in the bureau drawer.”

“You’re sure we won’t need them?” I said.

“Why, Casey,” she looked shocked; “that isn’t kind of you. Why should there be, when Mr. Moto is getting what he wants? He’s not a villain, Casey. He is a very considerate man.”

Her remark struck me as amusing, now that I had encountered several examples of Mr. Moto’s consideration, including a bad arm and a lacerated scalp.

“No,” she said, “Mr. Moto will treat you very nicely now.”

I was curious to see. Sonya was picking up the room and making it presentable. From melodrama the situation seemed to turn into something almost resembling a tea party.

“Casey,” Sonya said again, “since when have you had a drink?”

I tried to think back. “I have not had a drink for hours, not since at Mr. Wu’s,” I said. “I don’t believe I need to drink, if there’s anything that interests me.”

“Do I interest you?” she asked.

I told her that she did and she looked pleased. The Gaiety Club and sudden death and White Russian plots of Harbin had dropped away from her.

Mr. Moto would appear with an armed bodyguard, I thought, since he would be suspicious of some trap, but I did not give his perspicacity sufficient credit. Mr. Moto came alone, without a suspicious glance. He was dressed for the evening, carefully, in what is known as a dinner coat in America, and what the French call a smoking, an inoffensive man bowing, smiling, and holding an opera hat. He displayed his relief and pleasure by grinning so disarmingly that I very nearly liked him. There was a row of pearls on his pleated shirt front; a handkerchief was sticking neatly from his pocket; his small feet glittered in their patent-leather pumps.

“Hello, Moto,” I said.

“Hello, Lee,” he answered. His smile could not have been anything but genuine. “I am so glad,” Mr. Moto said, “so very, very glad, but I’m so sorry for what happened tonight. I hope you have not been hurt? If we could only have reached this conclusion before—but it was my fault, not your fault.”

I stood up and shook hands with him. The situation was curious and Mr. Moto’s wish to be friendly was nearly moving.

“That’s all right, Moto,” I said. “I only wish you’d thought of the flask sooner. I didn’t, Moto.”

Mr. Moto laughed and even his laughter was relieved, not the studious social laughter which one hears so often in Japan. “My dear fellow,” said Mr. Moto, “I am so very glad that nothing happened to you. It would have been such a mistake. And you have been so very useful. Suppose now we have a drink. Good whisky for good Japanese and good Americans.”

“Out of the flask?” I asked him.

Mr. Moto laughed gaily. “That is very good,” he said. “You are a good companion, Mr. Lee.”

Then Sonya interrupted. “No,” she said, “Mr. Lee is not drinking.”

It was the first time that I had known I was not drinking.

A shadow flitted across Mr. Moto’s smiling countenance and after it a light of comprehension.

“Ah,” said Mr. Moto, “so that is it. You have not been drinking? I remember now. How much more fortunate it would have been if you had been drinking,” and he laughed again, so infectiously that I joined him as I handed him my flask.

“There is good whisky inside that for a good Japanese, Mr. Moto,” I told him. “And there is one thing which perhaps you have not noticed. There is a cup on the bottom of the flask.”

Mr. Moto was being a very good fellow. He patted my arm gently.

“You are very funny, Mr. Lee,” he said. “I like men who are funny. We understand jokes in Japan. We love American jokes. Will you permit me?” He took the flask and his eyes narrowly intent. He pulled the cup off quickly. “Ah—” he said, and he had the bit of paper in his hand.

“Mr. Moto,” I said, “I want you to understand something.”

“What?” he asked.

“I want you to understand that I am very glad that you have this paper,” told him. “I want you to know that I bear you no ill will for anything that has happened—not even for your talk of a flight across the Pacific. I have had a very interesting time.”

Mr. Moto’s face looked genuinely troubled. “Perhaps we will talk about the Pacific flight later,” he said. “But now I wish not to inconvenience you. The belongings you left aboard the ship will be sent to you at once, and in the meanwhile you have been subjected to great unpleasantness through my fault, and I am very, very sorry. I understand that you are a gentleman, Mr. Lee, and I am giving this to you, entirely with that understanding. You are alone here without money. You will not mistake my motive, I ask you, please.” He drew in his breath between his teeth with a sharp little hiss, pulled a wallet from his inside pocket and extracted two large notes, each for five thousand yen.

“Please,” he said.

I hesitated, because I did not wish to touch his money under such circumstances. Sonya’s glance stopped my refusal. “Thank you, Mr. Moto,” I said. “This is too much.”

“No,” said Mr. Moto, “no.” And he made one of his curious bobbing bows. “It is nothing for the pain you have suffered. You must not think badly of Japan. Will you take it, please?”

“Thanks,” I said again.

Mr. Moto was relieved. He picked up the cup again and poured himself a drink. He raised the cup, smiling at me in a most friendly way. “Good whisky,” he said, “for a good Japanese. Banzai! And your very good health too, Miss Sonya. You have been very, very kind. I know you have had sad news today. You will not blame me for what happened, will you, Miss Sonya? Because I am very, very sorry and I like you very much.”

Sonya’s gesture surprised me, but it was genuine. She put her hands on Mr. Moto’s shoulders. “And I like you very much, Mr. Moto,” she said.

Mr. Moto tossed off his cup of whisky with a slight tremor, since the drink was probably distasteful to him, but he tossed it off because of manners.

“Moto,” I said, “I take it I may come and go as I please now? You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? You won’t mind my saying that you make me a trifle nervous?”

“My dear fellow!” Mr. Moto answered. “This is all over between us. If there is any help you need, call, please, at the Japanese Consulate. Mention my name, please, because I am a friend. And if you come back to Tokyo, ask for me, also. I wish you to like Japan. We are a small people to have come to so much, but we are a good people, Mr. Lee.”

I thanked him and I meant it.

“And we will talk about flying the Pacific later,” Mr. Moto said, “but—” His glance traveled from Sonya to me, “but perhaps now I interrupt?”

“No,” said Sonya. “I’m going now. I’ve done everything, I think.”

“Yes,” said Moto. “You have done very, very well. May I offer to take you where you are going?” Then he turned his attention to me again. “You have been hurt, Mr. Lee,” he said. “You are wounded in the head. It is nothing much, I hope. You haven’t been hurt elsewhere?”

“A flesh wound in the shoulder,” I answered. “It is nothing much.”

“I am so sorry,” said Mr. Moto. “So very sorry. May I send a physician?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Sonya’s fixed me up. Good night, Sonya.”

“I’ll call to see you in the morning,” Sonya said, “that is, if Mr. Moto does not mind.”

“Mind?” said Mr. Moto. “I am delighted. You are free, as free—what is the English expression? I am ashamed I do not know. Oh, yes, as free as the air!”

I wonder if Mr. Moto ever thought again of that phrase he used—“as free as the air.”

“You will not think too hardly of us?” Mr. Moto said.

“Good night, Casey,” said Sonya. “I’ll call to see how you are in the morning.”

“Moto,” I said, “if I’ve killed anyone tonight, I am very, very sorry.”

“Please,” said Mr. Moto, “you must not bother. It was duty for our Emperor, Mr. Lee, and we are all very pleased to die for him. Good night and rest comfortably, will you, please?”

“Good night,” I said, and then Mr. Moto and Sonya were gone.

I stood for a moment listening, and then I looked at my watch. A year had passed, for all I could estimate, since I had thought of time, and the shortness of the actual lapse was incredible. The hands of my watch indicated only five minutes to twelve. In less than two and a half hours I had been through events which might have filled ten years of an ordinary span. I was living fast. Sonya was right. I did not need a drink. I found the card which Sam Bloom had given me and asked for his number over the telephone. I knew what Sam Bloom had said was true, that he would stand by me for anything I wanted.

“Come up here, Sam,” I said. “As soon as you can, please.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “I’m coming.”

He was there in a quarter of an hour, with his hat tilted on the back of his head, asking, “What’s the matter, Casey?”

“I want a two-seater plane,” I said, “first thing tomorrow morning. I’m flying to a village six miles outside of Chinchow.”

“Chinchow,” said Sam Bloom. His intonation proved that he had the map of China on his finger tips, as any good aviator must know the country where he flies. “That’s between six-fifty and seven hundred miles and the Japanese will spot you when you get across the line. They’ll probably shoot at you. We’d better talk about this, Casey. Why do you want to see Chinchow? It’s a walled town on a plain. I can show you plenty of ’em.”

I knew that I must tell him the truth, but I did not mind, because I knew that Sam Bloom would stand by me if he could. “Sam,” I said, “you’re an American and I’m an American. Listen to this, Sam.” As Bloom listened, I remember thinking how calmly he took it, as though he understood a part already.

“Well,” was his only comment. “Why don’t you tell Jim Driscoll? He’s in the Intelligence.”

“I’ve told him,” I explained. “I’ve quarreled with Jim Driscoll; and now I’m going to do the rest of this myself. If anyone is going to get these figures, or whatever they are, I think I’m in the position to do it. All I want is a two-seater plane, Sam. Are you going to come across or not? That’s all I want to know.”

Bloom moved his felt hat restlessly between his fingers. “You’re asking more than you think,” he said.

“Probably,” I answered. “I want a plane and maps.”

“You’ll have to refuel,” he objected, “before you get back home. How are you going to do that, Casey?”

“I don’t care,” I answered, “as long as I get there.”

Bloom rubbed his hand along the back of his hand. “There’s an observation plane up at the airport,” he said, “that has been assigned to me. You can have it, Casey.”

“What time?” I asked.

“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” Bloom pulled a map from his pocket and handed it to me. “It may be that I’ll lose my job, but you can have it, Casey. I’ll see you in the morning. There’s the mark where you’re going. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. And now you’d better get some sleep. Good night!”