There was no way of escape. The building was a most effectual prison. His revolver had been taken from him. He could not even fight and die like a man. The fact was that this desperate extremity lacked the proper sense of reality. It was so contrary to reason and he had such shadowy, confused ideas of what had preceded, that this was more like nightmare or delirium. And it seemed impossible that he should not presently find himself awake.
What most tenaciously persisted in his memory was the image of the huge man in the teak-wood chair. He was a vision which could not be denied. Such a one as he had power to sway the wills of others to his desires, to create and direct great enterprises and send his influence afar, but never for good. If he ordered murder done in distant places his secret edicts would be obeyed, nor would his agent dare to thwart him. If there was such an organization as O’Shea had assumed, then he had stood face to face with the dominant personality, the compelling force from which radiated infernal activities.
“I saw him, whether I am meself or somebody else,” the prisoner muttered with a groan. “And he will come back and the brand will be chopped into me, same as was done to poor Bill Maguire. ’Tis a tough finish, if all this is really true. My God, I wish I knew what had happened to me. Yesterday I was going up-river with me men, and now——”
He struggled to his feet. A supreme effort of will conquered physical weakness. A man condemned to die is capable of forgetting bodily ills. Just then a young man appeared from the direction of the door-way. He wore native garments, but O’Shea recognized him. It was Charley Tong Sin, whose smile was unpleasant. In his hand was O’Shea’s revolver, which he was careful to hold ready for use. The jaunty, affable manner of the comprador had returned. He appeared very well satisfied with himself as he exclaimed, by way of greeting.
“It is an unexpected pleasure, you bet, Captain O’Shea. I have waited till you were gone from Wang-Li-Fu. It was reported that you were very sick and went up the river yesterday with your men. You decided to come and see us, to visit the Painted Joss? You wished to make some trouble?”
“’Tis the last day I will make trouble for any one, by the looks of things,” replied O’Shea. “You win, Charley.”
“You are a smart man,” grinned the other. “But you had too much curiosity. I am a good fellow. I will tell you what you want to know. You will not give it away. They are getting ready to cut your visit pretty short.”
There was the chatter of voices somewhere outside and the brazen mutter of a gong. O’Shea kept silence. He was not as resigned to his fate as Charley Tong Sin inferred. He was watching every motion of the gloating young man and his eyes measured the distance between them.
“You will feel better if you know,” tauntingly cried the Chinese. “You have seen the Painted Joss. You have seen a man sitting beside it, the great and terrible Chung himself, the ruler of the Pih-lien-Kiao, the Sect of the Fatal Obligation.”
“Much obliged, Charley,” grimly interrupted O’Shea. “Tell me some more. I am sorry I could not have words with the terrible Chung. And the brand that ye chop into people, your trademark?”