Harder pushed forward, feeling his way along the narrow platform pathway.

  “Who is this one?”

  The master grunted a swift order. Two of the boatmen stooped. There was a splash. The boatmen straightened. A dull red stain on the teak wood pathway was all that was left to mark the presence of the stranger garbed in black.

  “There was no one,” said the junk captain blandly.

  Jimmy Harder knew his China. His face was expressionless in the flickering glare of the torches.

  “There was no one,” he agreed, and turned to shuffle back along the narrow runway. Behind him he heard the splash of water, as buckets brought up the muddy river water and sloshed it over the boards where the spreading stain of red marked the place where the body had been found.

  All about were mysterious waters and darkness. Mow Jie was missing. As well have asked the captain to scuttle his junk as to stay in the vicinity and search for Mow Jie.

  Jimmy Harder knew his China. He also knew his responsibility. Momentarily, the junk was moving farther from the place where Mow Jie had disappeared, yet there was nothing which could be done. Such was the philosophy of China.

  Jimmy Harder once more complacently resumed his seat on the mat; picked up his long handled bamboo pipe, philosophically stuffed sook yen into the pewter bowl. He struck a match, and puffed the hissing tobacco into smoke.

  If it had been written that his man was to be swallowed by the dark river, it was written, and there was nothing that could be done about it. His attitude proclaimed his Oriental philosophy, and distracted attention from himself.

  There was a scrubbing sound from the rear of the junk as the last vestige of the red stain was being removed.

  Jimmy Harder glanced swiftly about him. He had taken up his position near the edge of the boat. No one was paying any particular attention to him. He leaned over, inspecting the dark waters, straining his eyes downward, trying to get a glimpse of the water, staring into the wall of darkness.

  One by one, the torches flickered out.

  Jimmy Harder tossed the bamboo pipe into the water. He heard the hissing sound as the water struck the glowing tobacco and the hot metal bowl.

  He took a deep breath; leaned slightly more forward, and went down into the river with a clean dive that was virtually without noise.

  The muddy water got in his eyes and nostrils. He took three swift underwater strokes; came to the surface; took a deep breath of the night air.

  The black shape of the junk slid smoothly past him. The last torch was extinguished as the stem blotted out what little illumination the overcast sky gave.

  Jimmy Harder took a deep breath, turned over and started moving with slow, powerful strokes back against the sluggish current of the river, up toward the place where the junk must have been when Mow Jie so mysteriously disappeared, and his place taken by Yeah Jing Suhn, the War Lord of Darkness.

  The water was warm. Jimmy Harder’s light silk garments became wet and clung to him, offering but little resistance. He was a powerful swimmer and as much at home in the water as a seal.

  Swimming slowly, silently, keeping his hands well under water, using a stroke that gave him plenty of speed without too great expenditure of energy, Harder kept working up the current, following as nearly as he could the wake of the junk.

  Harder’s mind was filled with dark forebodings. He felt certain that Mow Jie would not have voluntarily jumped from the junk, and he knew that no amount of money could have induced Mow Jie to desert.

  The clouds which hung low over the heavens shortly before the moon set, and which made the darkness of the night almost impenetrable, began to break. Sufficient light from the stars filtered through to give some degree of visibility. From his position, low on the surface of the water, Harder could see more clearly than from the deck of the junk.

  Harder began to feel the handicap of the silken garments. He managed to slip out of the loose upper garment, rolled it into a ball and thrust it through his belt. He struck out again, and almost at once saw something dark swirling around in the water.

  He swam toward it, and even as he did so, the thing sank from sight. Harder dove, groped with His hands and encountered an inert body.

  He dragged the body to the surface, feeling no doubt in his mind that he was holding the last mortal remains of Mow Jie, the Cat Man, who had given his life for the man whom he served.

  Turning on his back, Harder’s fingers explored the man’s features. He suddenly recoiled.

  At once, Harder realized that which he held. He pulled it alongside so that he could get some faint glimpse of the color of the garments. His surmise was correct. The body was the one which had been pitched from the junk, the body of the man garbed entirely in dark clothes.

  Harder turned the body loose.

  Harder swam onward, moving more slowly now, realizing that he was nearing the place where the junk lay when the attack took place. Down close to the waters, he could see patches of star-studded sky. Far over to the left, he observed the bulk of a junk rising against the stars, and abruptly became conscious of something which was moving between the junk and his eyes—a dark formless blotch which slipped silently over the murky waters.

  Harder turned and struck out toward this mysterious dark object, taking care to swim with the utmost silence.

  His disguise was no longer of use. The water had washed away much of the stain which had colored his skin. The skullcap had drifted down stream, uncovering the bits of adhesive tape which had pulled up the comers of his eyes.

  Harder was contemplating taking off the rest of his silken Chinese garments, when he saw that which was ahead of him, and which had been moving toward the junk as a formless mass of darkness.

  It was a sampan covered with black cloth, and it was being sculled with consummate skill, making it move like some black iceberg that might have been spewed forth from some inky glacier of darkness.

  Harder followed along behind the sampan, saw it slide in close to the junk, then swing around to the other side so that the high hull of the junk hid that which was taking place from both his eyes and ears.

  Harder moved more rapidly now, trying to gain a position from which he could see what was taking place, but he was too late. Whatever errand the sampan may have had, it was completed before Harder could reach the junk, for he saw the sampan slide out from beneath the junk’s high stem and skim swiftly over the water with the silent speed of a frightened duck.

  Harder realized that he could not remain indefinitely in the water. He knew only too well the danger of watchful eyes which might be keeping secret vigil on the decks of the junk, but sooner or later he had to board that junk. Mow Jie, his friend and ally, had either been knifed and dropped into the enveloping waters of the river, or he had, quite probably, been imprisoned aboard that junk.

  Harder slowed his strokes, slipped cautiously along, taking care to make no faintest ripple. Swinging down stream, he swam slowly up under the high stem of the junk, slipping under the overhang, clinging to the rudder support, climbing up until he could reach the lower edge of the platform above the rudder.

  His silk clothing was wet, and, as he gained height the water running out of the garments made dripping noises which were all too audible in the close stillness of the night.

  Harder clung there against the high stem, waiting for the water to drain from the silk, listening intently for any significant noises.

  He heard the soft, swishing sound of bare feet moving on the platform above his head, heard a guttural voice, and then the feet marched on. There was the sound of a door opening and closing. A Chinese voice gave a startled exclamation and then was silent.

  Somewhere above him a man was snoring steadily, rhythmically.

  Farther forward, and on the opposite side of the junk, a sampan was moored. From time to time, it rubbed gently against the junk, and the scraping noise of wood on wood vibrated through the big craft. Harder was irritated that junk men should leave a sampan where it would rub, but he realized that the only reason for leaving it in that position was either that it was to be immediately required on the shortest of notice, or else that it had been used to bring someone aboard the junk—a someone who had to be carried, and who had, therefore, been loaded at the lowest point in the curve of the junk’s deck.

  Harder found a small projection under the overhang of the platform above him. Perched upon this, he ascertained that his gun was still in working order.

  Harder had learned much about firearms in the moist tropics. Moreover, he realized that one who sails on a river may, upon occasion, find himself in a river. He had, therefore, taken the precaution of putting paraffine over the shells, coating the working parts with paraffine. He had, moreover, chosen one of the more durable double-action revolvers of a standard type, with few working parts to get out of order.

  He convinced himself that the gun was in proper working order. He could hear no further sounds on the platform above him, and, holstering the gun, raised his hands to the platform, pulled himself up until he could fling up a leg and worm his way up to a point from which he could look down along the deck of the junk.

  He could see only a faint suggestion of shadowy outlines, and, as he was trying to focus his eyes, a door opened. Light streamed out in a golden pathway, and into that golden pathway of light, hulking first as a black grotesque shadow which squirmed along the deck, and then showing as a fat figure, catching the illumination of the peanut oil lamp, from within the room, came George Ballinger, his face wreathed in smiles, his voice booming, cordial.

  “All right,” he said, “you catchum money, I catchum guns. You come top side money, I come top side guns.”

  He strode across the deck, groping his way along the rail after his pounding strides had taken him beyond the pathway of illumination which came from the doorway. The sling and splints had been removed from his arm.

  A boatman stood up in the sampan which had been rubbing against the side of the junk.

  Harder knew then why the sampan had been waiting there.

  Ballinger raised a whistle to the mouth, blew three, shrill blasts.

  Ballinger, standing by the rail of the junk, was apparently peering into the night, searching for something that was to happen in response to his whistled signal.

  Harder, therefore, stood up and scanned the blackness of the river night, trying also to see that which Ballinger expected.

  His eyes immediately focused upon a dull red glare which showed reflected against the clouds. As he looked, he saw a tongue of flame come into view. Shortly afterwards there were more flames, then a rolling cloud of black smoke which swirled up from above angry red flames.

  The smoke twisted and turned in heat-tortured agony, and drifted down the sky.

  As the flames mounted higher, Harder was able to see the outline of masts, and, to his ears, softened by distance, came the screams of men in agony.

  Harder understood. The War Lord of Darkness had issued orders. The sampan covered with the black cloth, which slipped away into the darkness, had been filled with men taken from the junk—men who were ordered to overtake the junk upon which Harder had been traveling and see that it did not reach Canton.

  Harder’s mind working rapidly, recognized what must have happened. Yeah Jing Suhn, the War Lord of Darkness, intent upon mapping out a campaign which would catch the City of Canton utterly by surprise, dependent only upon the receipt of a vast store of munitions of war from Ballinger’s company, had been most unwilling that the news of Edith Minter’s abduction should reach Canton, bringing up an investigating patrol of Chinese gunboats.

  Not that the War Lord of Darkness entertained any doubt as to his ability to dispose of Edith Minter. That would have been most easy, but any extensive investigation would undoubtedly have disclosed that which Ballinger was to deliver—the munitions of war which would be used by Yeah Jing Suhn in surprising Canton, and carrying out the ruthless massacre which he had planned.

  Harder calculated that Ballinger’s whistles were not a signal for firing the junk. That had been arranged for earlier, when the black covered sampan had slid in close to the junk, pausing long enough to take on board a sufficient crew of cut-throats to make certain that the junk could be overpowered, burned, and the members of the crew put to the sword before they could reach Canton with an alarm.

  Harder had, therefore, through his desire to reach Mow Jie, unwittingly saved his own life. He shuddered as he thought of what must have happened on that junk; the dark sampan which had glided invisibly to the stern; the half-naked crew of cut-throats that had swarmed up to the runways, moving stealthily upon their bare feet, until, at a signal, they plunged upon the helpless crew.

  Apparently, some of the crew had been chained to the burning junk, for the screams and cries were still audible at this distance.

  Once more Ballinger raised the whistle to his lips, and blew three impatient blasts.

  From the darkness came the sound of an answering whistle.

  A moment later Harder could hear the grunts of men as they strove in sweating unison to pole up a huge junk, the form of which loomed suddenly in black silhouette against the angry red glow of the clouds illuminated by the burning of the junk.

  Ballinger evidently saw the junk also, for he stepped in the sampan with an exclamation of satisfaction.

  The sampan immediately pulled away and started crossing the black gap of water.

  Harder heard the muffled scream of a woman, a scream that was shrill with terror and was almost immediately muffled, as though a hand had been clapped over her mouth.

  He heard the sounds of struggle, sounds which were plainly audible to his ears, although Ballinger, seated in the sampan did not so much as turn his head.

  There was a swirl of motion, the noise of a Chinese screaming in pain. Then the woman screamed again, a shrill treble scream of frenzied fear.

  A woman ran from the cabin, out into the pathway of light which streamed from the door. She turned, and Harder caught sight of her face.

  It was Edith Minter. Her face was chalk-white, her eyes wide and staring. Her lips parted as she emitted another sudden scream.

  A Chinese, a knife in his hand, lunged toward her.

  Jimmy Harder calmly lined the sights of his gun and pulled trigger.

  The weapon roared. The lunging Chinese lurched, sprawled to the deck.

  There was a moment of sudden tense silence. Ballinger, seated in his sampan, turned to stare, his form, clad in white silks, showing vaguely indistinct below the blurred oval of his white face.

  The junk seemed strangely silent. It was as though the sound of the shot had made men motionless, as well as speechless, with surprise.

  “This way, Edith,” called Jimmy Harder.

  She ran blindly toward him. She had lost her shoes, and he could hear the pound of her bare feet on the planks of the deck.

  Ballinger's sampan whirled swiftly, in response to a guttural command, and the boatman sculled back toward the junk. From the junk that was being poled came the sounds of startled cries, topped by a shrill question flung out into the hot night by a surprised Chinese.

  “Whasa malla? Whasa malla? Whasa malla?”

  Ballinger’s voice boomed across the water:

  “Maybeso makum much trouble. Stay away. You no come this side.”

  The man snoring on the high stem sat up with the first sound of the commotion. He saw the indistinct white of Edith Minter running toward him. With a grunt of satisfaction he lunged forward.

  Jimmy Harder had vaulted the low rail, was on the deck. Two swift strides, a flash of his wrist, and the barrel of his weapon thunked down on the man’s skull. The boatman lurched to his knees, gave a peculiar whooshing sigh and dropped to his face.

  A figure appeared in the lighted doorway of the cabin, a figure that held Jimmy Harder’s attention as the light shone upon its face.

  The man was attired in a flaming red jacket above black pantaloons. A skullcap of black, trimmed with a zigzag border of red and surmounted by a red button, was on his head. The eyes held a strange sardonic look of cynical appraisal. The lips were twisted into a cruel leer, a leer which was the more emphasized by a black, stringy mustache which hung down on either side of the upper lip.

  His fingernails were long and stained, until they seemed like great yellow claws. In his right hand he held a slender steel dagger, the point of which had been dipped in a jade box. The box was held open in his left hand, and the light from the cabin illuminated the green venom in the box. The calm, deadly deliberation of the man was hypnotic to behold.

  Harder knew at once that this was the face of a leader, a man with the warped intellect which comes from frequent wooing of the poppy, and he knew of that which the box contained—a substance know as look took yok, the deadly green poison known to some of the old mandarins, a poison which paralyzes instantly and brings on agonized rapid death.

  The man in the doorway spoke.

  He seemed not in the least excited.

  The eyes took in the situation with that expression of sardonic appraisal which seemed so coldly emotionless.

  “Death to the bak gwiee he,” he called, speaking in Cantonese.

  Instantly the darkness rang with shrill cries, the sound of pattering feet as men ran toward the rail.

  Ballinger whipped out an automatic. In the excitement of the moment he forgot his pidgin English. Lights flared, now close to the side of the junk, was plainly visible. Gone was the urbane geniality of his manner. His bull voice bellowed across the water.

  “You damn double-crossing, yellow-bellied son of a heathen Chinee! I knew you were up to some deviltry!” he shouted. “You were going to stick me with a poisoned dagger after Td got the money and you’d got the munitions. To hell with you! You’ll never see them. I’ll sink them in the bottom of the river or blow them up before you get a crack at them!”

  Edith Minter joined Jimmy Harder.

  “You!” she exclaimed in a throaty whisper.

  “Yes,” he said, “what did they want?”