Derrick nodded without knowing it. The world was full of clearing mists through which he began to perceive that which heretofore was hidden. His eyes wandered to Perkins. She stood rigid, as under a spell, her soul carried away by some invisible stream. Martin’s furtive gaze had changed, and his face was graven with despair, behind which moved desperate possibilities. Derrick saw these and thankfully remembered the man crouching against the wall outside.
“Go on,” he repeated.
“Others had heard that voice, thousands and thousands of them, and they too loved and hated and desired and feared this thing. It was always like this from the very first, because its hate had conquered love, and the fear in it was at war with desire. It had sucked in all that the hearts of men can feel, and because of its wisdom, and because it was at war with the spirit of Buddha, it had been kept close till that day. But only those on whom the spirit of Buddha rested might know the greatness and danger of this thing. And it was written that should it go from that place death would follow wherever it went.”
Something in the unbroken monotone captured the brain of Derrick, and the room swam. A mesmeric influence was at work. Everything around him began to slide, smoothly, imperceptibly. Was Millicent’s death so important after all? Soon it would be forgotten—with all else. What did he owe Millicent in any case? Why trouble to waste his time on another man’s affairs? Perkins, Martin, and even Blunt himself became blurred in this general indistinction, merging peacefully with other unrealities.
“So death came into this room, brother to fear, following the steps of the doomed. It was in no hurry but waited till fear had established itself firmly. There was not any escape, and there could be none, and the man who was to die walked between them for years, seeing their faces whichever way he turned.” The peddler waited an instant and leaned slightly toward Martin. “So it will be with the next appointed to die.”
Perkins was as though turned to stone, and Derrick’s breath came faster. There fell a stinging silence, while the atmosphere seemed to hum and quiver. Then from Martin proceeded a strange choking sound, and in that second Blunt leaped forward. With the swiftness of light he traversed the ten feet between him and the desk and grasped the image. At the mere touch of this, an amazing virility shot through his body, and he darted like a stone from a catapult across the room toward the French window. Derrick tried to shout, but his tongue had lost its power. Following a violent splintering of glass and wood, a bull-like roar from Burke, and the lithe figure was half-way over the lawn. Behind it lumbered the big frame of the sergeant, losing ground at every stride.
Oblivious of the others, Derrick dashed out and took up the chase. The jade god was in flight now. He had drawn level with Burke when there sounded directly ahead the noise of a struggle, a sharp whistle, the curse of a man who is strained to the utmost, and finally a strange, shrill cry. At that the sergeant slackened his pace.
“That’s Peters,” he panted, laboring for breath. “I gave him orders to station himself there behind the hedge, and a good job, too. He’s got our friend.”
Derrick sped on. “Come along,” he shouted over his shoulder. “He may need help.”
Burke grunted. “Not him, with a chap that size, but the little devil pushed his finger into my throat, and I saw stars. Make your own pace, sir, but it’s all right now.”