The obese effigy smiled, pleased with his knowledge, and Trent felt that each word had its own hidden significance. Curiosity pricked him, like a needle flashing back and forth across the loom of thought. But he smoked his cigar and stared at the blue jar as if he had nothing weightier than the Sung porcelain upon his mind.
"As a man climbs a mountain by terraces, so will you travel to the city where dwells the Falcon, he who guides the workings of the Order," Li Kwai Kung went on. "There, having attained the summit, you will—er—see light. The next terrace of your journey is Burma."
He withdrew an object from under the cushions and Trent looked upon a packet wrapped in white silk. The mandarin, placing his pipe in a bowl at his side, rested a contemplative gaze upon the silken wrapping.
"Passage for Rangoon has been booked for you on the Manchester, which leaves day after to-morrow. Here"—indicating the packet—"are all necessary papers. When you reach Rangoon you will take a train, as soon as convenient, for Myitkyina, where you will go to the shop of Da-yak, the Tibetan, and identify yourself by showing the symbol of the Order. He will furnish you with a hu-chao, or, as you would say, a passport, to a—er—higher terrace."
He handed the packet to the Englishman, who placed it in his pocket. Trent's thoughts were revolving about what he had just heard—revolving and reaching no end. Myitkyina. Upper Burma. Were the jewels in Burma? But why Burma? How were they taken there? "Under the protection of your Secret Service," Sarojini Nanjee had said. Were they hidden somewhere in the hills? Myitkyina. He tried to visualize a map; failed.... This City of the Falcon: in Burma? And the Falcon? Who was he? White or Oriental?... Groping—groping in the dark—a purposeless circle. At least, this Order was no small one.
"I believe there are no further instructions to deliver," he heard Li Kwai Kung say. "Regarding the trivial matter of your—er—incidentals, I presume you have been told to keep an account and submit it at the proper time?... No?... Then do so, as it is the wish of the Order that you suffer no personal expenses.... Stay,"—as Trent made a move to leave—"it would be ungracious for me to allow so honorable a guest to depart without further hospitality!"
The little Chinese maid brought liquor—a sort of arak that, despite his Excellency's comment that it was a draught of the gods, tasted like sweetened vinegar to Trent. As the Englishman sipped the wine he continued to mull over what Li Kwai Kung had told him. The formidableness of the Order amazed him, troubled him not a little. This Falcon had a nest in Calcutta and Myitkyina. Where else? What of his brood? Why not, he mused, report what he knew to the Intelligence Department; let them swoop down upon these two nests; thus avoid any treachery that Sarojini might contemplate? An idea that he instantly dismissed, for to act prematurely was to invite defeat. He was under orders—and he had given his word of honor. Seek the root of the vine, the seed from which the Order flowered; then exterminate it.
Trent saw by his wrist-watch that it was nearly ten o'clock when he finally rose to take his leave. Li Kwai Kung lifted his corpulent person with an effort and repeated the ceremony of vigorously shaking his own hands.
"A sage once said, 'A man's actions are the mirrors of his heart,'" was his parting remark. "And, verily, I have looked into your heart!" (Which, Trent reflected later, was a rather cryptic compliment.) "May you flourish in wisdom and wealth, as the blossoms of the almond tree flourish after the snows have melted and run down from the Yunnan-fu!"
Trent inclined his head gravely. "And may the Green Gods grant you the Twelve Desires!" he returned.