The Powder-man looked dumbly about him, at the little home, the black-walled magazine, the grassy level surrounding. Upon the green, the dark-red peonies were nodding; across it fared the butterflies.
For a long time, he stood. Then, slowly, he went apart and sat down in a place where he could command every approach. Here, hour by hour, he stayed—waiting. Twilight came on. He arose, approached the door of his little home, unlocked it, and entered. A silken garment lay close to the sill. He took it up, smoothing it with a gentle hand. At last, he laid it down. His eye rested upon a photograph that lay among the cups and bowls on the table. He lifted it tenderly, carried it to the chest of drawers and set it upon end. Before it, in a bronze cup of ashes, he put a lighted incense stick.
He leaned against the drawer chest, his forehead upon a hand. “Mother of the unborn that were to worship my bones!” he faltered.
By now, the twilight had deepened into night. Down the highway leading to Fruitvale, he heard the barking of a dog. He stole to the window and sat down, a revolver upon his knee.
The dog quieted. A quarter of an hour passed. Then, from the other side, toward Haywards, a second barking. He stepped outside, keeping close to the house. Behind it, among the dove-cotes, he halted, peering to every side.
A space of time went by. Then, across the level from the railway, three shadows!
Yee Wing sank down and crept noiselessly to the door of the magazine, opened it, and stood just within the black entrance.
The three shadows were nearer now, but motionless.
Yee Wing called out: “Come, honourable brothers, come. Why wait you yonder?”
The shadows moved, but there was no answer. They separated. One came forward under cover of the house; one turned to the right; one to the left.