"Tajen, I came to warn you," he announced. "Fong Wa is not kindly disposed since your visit. He will send the mules and supplies, because he is a coward; but he has made it impossible for you to leave the city to-night. All gates close at sunset, and he has issued an order that no caravan pass in or out."
Trent thought for some time before he spoke. Finally:
"What reason has he to wish to prevent me from leaving to-night?"
The soldier shrugged.
"Ma-chai," he replied—which is the superlative of indifference.
That the Oriental had some ulterior motive Trent did not doubt for an instant. In a land where three thousand years of intrigue has bred a suspicious people, a kindly act is not the best symptom. He did not waste words, but asked:
"Why do you tell me this?"
Another shrug. "I am houi-houi," he explained, that is to say, a Chinese Mussulman. "Fong Wa is a Lamaist dog. He is a leech that sucks blood from the people. They hate him. He never pays the soldiers and many are deserting to go down the Yangtze, where a war is brewing."
Trent kept silent, waiting to hear the purpose behind this introductory talk. The soldier was a reckless-looking fellow. The edge of his scant turban touched eyes that gleamed with a light inherited from a succession of robber-ancestors. An amiable young villain, he imagined.
"My name is Kee Meng," the Oriental volunteered. "My father was Tibetan, my mother Mosso. But I am Yunnanese. Oh, I have traveled much! Chung-king—even Hankow! I was makotou for an English Tajenho who went from Liangchowfu to Urga. See,"—he drew a piece of paper from under his jacket—"this is a letter he wrote saying I was a very fine makotou—only he called me bashi—the very best in China. Read it, Tajen."