"It had its significance," was Trent's meager reply.
"It's quite distressing, quite, to have thieves aboard. But in these waters.... Is there anything else I can do for you?"
There wasn't. And Trent went to his cabin to shave.
After dinner he and Dana Charteris walked another mile around the vessel; stood for some time in the bow, watching the flying-fish skim the glassy undulations in greenish, phosphorescent flashes; sat in their deck-chairs in the shadow of a looming cabin (and the spell of low-hung Oriental stars) and talked of inconsequentials.
For some time after she left, he sat sunken in cavernous absorption. He was aroused by a voice close by—a quiet familiar voice that asked if it were not a rare night. He turned to see a tall figure near his chair. Starlight dwelt on even mobile features, a high forehead, slender hands and eyes that looked inquisitively into his.
He answered that it was indeed a rare night. Whereupon Hsien Sgam politely enquired if he might occupy the chair next to Trent's. As he moved, the Englishman noticed that he slued slightly to the left—saw the twisted limb. The Mongol lit a cigarette. The flare of the match brought his face into ruddy prominence. In that brief moment Trent felt that ancient wickedness, refined to an exquisite degree, looked at him from beneath the bronze lids; then the match died and Hsien Sgam spoke in his quiet cultured voice, and Trent realized to what fantastic borders imagination can extend.
The Oriental asked perfunctorily if Trent intended to remain long in Rangoon, and ventured that it was a very quaint city; and, quite as perfunctorily, Trent responded that he wasn't sure how long he'd be in Rangoon, and that from all he'd heard it must be very quaint. Conversation threatened to pursue a dull course until Trent opened the subject of the political situation in Mongolia.
"Ah, Mongolia!" Hsien Sgam drew a deep breath. "It is there as it is elsewhere in the East. The Holy Lands, as you call them, are dead—sterile as eunuchs. Ghandi preaches—is Swaraj the word?—in India; China is locked in inner convulsions; Japan is a dragon with fire in its nostrils; Korea and Manchuria are but manikins that act as Tokyo directs; Siam, Indo-China, Malaya and Burma are the only peaceful spheres, and their people are children, thoughtless children. Asia has red wrath in her bowels. I am afraid for her. But Mongolia—you asked about Mongolia?...
"The world moves in cycles," the Easterner continued. "It is the inexorable law. Asia was at its—er—pinnacle about twelve hundred and twenty-seven; then Europe. Europe is dipping; next America—and after that?" The slender hands shaped into an oddly expressive gesture. "The failure of Sultan Baber was the beginning of a slow death for my country. Now there seems but one future—that of a base from which Japan can operate in Asia. Japan must have food, too, and already the Szechuanese and other border people have pressed into Mongolia and proved it fertile. And we have unworked mineral resources...."
"But Japan is apparently retrenching in her policy," Trent reminded him, finding himself interested. "What of the Allied Consortium?"