They were passing a long row of pyramids, green, brown and red. But Miss Vost was staring along the deck.
"The Mongolian!" she muttered. "How he is grinning at you!"
The Mongolian had come upon them, apparently unintentionally. He hesitated and paused when Peter looked up. Peter saw no grin upon his lips. They were set in a firm, straight line. His long arms were folded behind his back, and his eyes were empty of mirth—or malice. They simply expressed nothing. He looked at Peter shortly, and favored Miss Vost with a long stare.
Her eyes faltered. Peter stepped forward.
But the Mongolian bowed, passed them at a slow, meditative walk, and was lost from their sight behind the cabin's port side.
The idea took hold of Peter that the stalker had become the killer. There was a telegraph station at Ichang through which ran the frail copper wires connecting the seventy millions of Szechwan Province with civilization. Had it been possible for the Mongolian to signal his master in Len Yang and receive an answer while the Hankow lay at Ichang?
After dinner, curious and nervous, Peter went below. The light was burning over the table of weapons in the main cabin.
The Mongolian's door was slightly ajar, and as Peter descended the stairs, the door closed.
He waited. His heart thumped, louder than the thump of the laboring engine. He walked to his stateroom, opened the door, kicked the threshold, and—slammed the door! He hastened to the table, and hid behind it. Between the table legs he had a splendid view of both doors.
Holding a kris, point down, in front of him, the Mongolian slipped out, tried the adjacent door-knob and entered Peter's room. When he came out, he looked perplexed and angry. He slid the dagger into his silk blouse and looked up the stairway, listening.