2
Trent twice circled the promenade deck. The faint drizzle had ceased, but there was a dampness in the mist that moistened his face as with spray. Yet he could not bring himself to the point of turning in. The scene exerted an irresistible fascination over him. The spectral pallor of cabin walls; portholes aglow in the murk; a gentle vibration underfoot; the swish-swish of the tide against the hull.
On his third round of the ship he paused aft, at a point that yielded a view of gaping cargo-well and the steerage. He could see the forms of steerage-passengers—amorphous blurs in the hazy night. A tongue of yellow lapped out from a bleary deck-lamp and licked across crowded bodies, groping stanchions and hatches, touching twin ventilators that reared up, like phantom cobras, out of the jungle of human beings. Some one was piping on a reed flageolet—an eerie, tuneless wailing. He almost imagined the pink turban of Tambusami among the spot-like head-dresses below.
As he passed the wireless-house, at a turn of the promenade-deck, he caught a glimpse of green-shaded lights. A breath of tobacco warmly brushed his face; he heard the crackle of static trickling in.
It was not yet ten-thirty when he went to his cabin. He undressed leisurely, reflecting the while. Then, lighted pipe between his teeth, he established himself in his berth with a newspaper. But the restful churn of the engines had a somnolent effect upon him, and presently he tossed the news-sheet away, put out the light and settled himself for sleep.
And did not.
Of late, since the night he found Manlove in the ruined temple at Gaya, he had formed the habit of reviewing, after retiring, the incidents of the day. This habit clung. Sleep that a moment ago courted him, now evaded his advances. A picture of the Mongol created itself in illusive imagery before him. A woman's mouth—and a woman's hands, for the skin that touched his as he gave the Oriental a match had the feel of satin. Long hands, they were; but he fancied that beneath the silken smoothness was sinuous, fibrous strength. They.... But why in Tophet was he thinking of this Buddha-faced heathen? He shut his mind. But thoughts refused to be excluded from their dominion. Nor could he sleep. His eyelids rebelled against closing, and when now and then he succeeded in downing their resistance, it was only to have them lift the next instant and show him the dim monotony of the state-room, relieved by the murky gray porthole.
And as he stared at the porthole, contemplating it vindictively, as if it were responsible for his wakefulness, it suddenly darkened.
When he became fully cognizant of the fact that a face was peering in at him, it had vanished—but as he sat up, his every nerve alive, he witnessed a second apparition.
The murk outside the porthole gave birth to a hand that sank into the dim obscurity within, then reappeared, stamped momentarily in relief upon the gray circle, and withdrew into the foggy gloom that had yielded it.
Trent sprang from his berth. As his feet touched the floor, he heard a thudding sound on the deck; a low exclamation; running footsteps. At the door he fumbled with the lock, then stepped into the cross-corridor vestibule-way and rushed out upon the deck.
A nearby deck-lamp shone in the mist like a nebula-ringed planet, shedding paltry light upon moist timbers and begrudgingly revealing a pale turban as it disappeared around a projection of the deckhouse.
And there was not only one turban, for another followed the first!
Trent threw a glance right and left; broke into a run, his bare feet padding on the damp planks; paused at the corner of the deckhouse. A few yards beyond, a companionway spilled a plenitude of light. Voices came to him above the rumble of the steamer's screws; a woman's laugh. He stood motionless for a moment, hesitating; then, chagrined, returned to his cabin and switched on the light.
No recess from intrigue, even on the ship! Mystery ever at his heels. Was this another demonstration of the power whose hand he felt at Benares and Calcutta?
He fastened the wingbolts upon the brass-bound port-glass; pulled the curtain to insure against observation from outside. Not until then did the glittering object at his feet capture his attention. As he saw it a charge, as of an electric current, tingled the length of his body. It seemed unreal, impossible—until he picked it up. The contact assured him it was no vision, that he held in his hand a coral silver-chased oval with a broken clasp—the pendant that he had found in Manlove's dead fingers.
Cold anticipation settled upon him. He inserted a fingernail under the band that bound the oval; hesitated, stayed by a queer reluctance. He held what he believed to be a key to the mystery of Manlove's death. A single move and the name engraved within would be disclosed—the identity.... But suppose there was no name; suppose—
He pressed under the silver band ... and a knock sounded on the door.