Such was the man’s strength, that he lifted his assailant bodily from the ground, and twisting, would have flung him down, but Yeh Ling’s leg gripped his, and then Rex Lander wrenched his hands free and dived for his pocket. Yeh Ling saw the gleam of the automatic.
“Sorry,” he breathed.
It seemed to Rex Lander that he felt a momentary spasm of pain in his left side.
“You!” he gurgled. He coughed deeply once, and Yeh Ling eased him down to the settee.
The Chinaman stood, his head bent forward, listening. No sound but the “clac-cloc, clac-cloc” from the hall below. He lifted Lander’s eyelid’s and touched the ball of the eye gently. The man was dead.
Yeh Ling pulled a blue silk handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the perspiration from his face and eyes, replacing the handkerchief carefully. Then, bending down, he brought the limp arm of Lander about his neck, and with a jerk, lifted him to his shoulder. Slowly, painfully, he passed down the stairs with his burden. At the foot of the stairs he was compelled to lay the man down. He tried to find a chair, but without success. Sitting on the floor by the side of his victim, Yeh Ling recovered his breath, and getting up noiselessly, opened the door wide.
Black as the night was, there was sufficient light to distinguish objects faintly. He could not hoist the man again; he could only drag him across the hall. He knocked over a chair in the process, but fortunately it fell on the carpet and made no sound. Into the garden, along the paved path, out into the road.
Yeh Ling’s breath came in a thin whistle. He had to stop again to recover himself. He made another effort to lift the body and was partially successful. He staggered up the road, his knees giving way under him, but his will dominated, and when he reached a safe distance from the house, he put his burden down and went in search of Lander’s car. This he found with no trouble: it was unlikely that he should fail, for he had seen the man arrive. He started the engine and brought the car backward along the road until it was level with the Thing. Then he got down and hoisted it into the back of the car, and covering it with a coat he found, lit a cigarette, put on the lights, and drove slowly along the road toward Storford.
Half-a-mile from where his new house was situated, he turned off the lights, and covered the remainder of the distance without their assistance. Drawing his car up close to a hedge, he gathered the limp figure on his shoulder, and tramped across the muddy ground until he came to the uprights that supported the cement vats. There was a flicker of lightning on the horizon. Yeh Ling could see in that flash (even if he had not known), that no progress had been made in the construction of his Pillar of Grateful Memories: the tub-like molds stood in place, the steel core, like an attenuated tree-trunk, leaned and swayed in the gale drunkenly.
After much seeking, he found the end of a rope fastened to one of the cross pieces of the platform, and this he tied about the Thing’s waist, and went to the windlass. A growl of thunder, a more prolonged quiver and splash of blue light. Looking up, Yeh Ling saw a bundle suspended in mid-air, and took another turn of the wheel.