ACCUSTOMED, as Cleve Branch was, to the atmosphere of Chinatown, he felt uneasy tonight as he trod his way along the narrow, hilly street. This district seemed more sinister than ever.
Perhaps the chill air from the bay was responsible. That air betokened an approaching fog, that would be thick when morning dawned. Already a vague mist seemed to be settling through Chinatown.
Each alley that Cleve passed was gloomy — a place for hidden eyes. The very doors between the lighted shops were lurking spots.
As Cleve walked by a placid Chinaman, pipe-smoking at the door of a store, he fancied that he saw the fellow watching him.
Why this thought of prying eyes? If they were watching Cleve Branch, they would gain nothing; for soon Cleve Branch would be a lost identity, replaced by Hugo Barnes. Yet all Chinatown seemed alert tonight, Cleve thought as he walked along.
The explanation, had Cleve known it, was on his own forehead. There, beneath the glow of every light he passed, gleamed a spot that told a story.
It was a secret of the Wu-Fan — known to the most trusted Chinese members only. The mark of death — the mark that meant its bearer should be watched!
No matter what guise he might assume, Cleve would not be able to avoid those stealthy looks from almond eyes, unless he covered up the telltale spot.
Cleve Branch and Hugo Barnes would be alike tonight. Both, men who would be watched!
This had begun the night before. When Cleve had touched the brass dragon and placed his finger on his forehead, he had applied the secret charm.