“And is there plenty?”
Bowen cackled, raucous froth appearing on his lips.
“Forty jars!” he retorted. “Each jar with eight panels, and holding about a peck. Treasure, indeed! On those panels is carved the history of the reign of Kublai Khan!”
Roberts was on his feet.
“Let’s start!” he commanded, his voice shaking with anticipation of high, terrible adventure. “There is the rim of the sun! Take one last drink of the whisky, Bowen....”
All of the Chinese save two were left behind. This pair, stolid, fat, over-muscled giants who had been with Roberts for years, made a chair of their hands, and carried Bowen back across the rim of desert toward the Great Wall. All four of the men bristled with weapons, and had their pockets crammed with loaded clips.
To Roberts’ surprise, Bowen directed the course of the journey back to the east, in the direction of Dadchin.
“Three corridors run the length of the wall in this section,” he explained. “One corridor is not known to the Yengi.... It is how I got among them first....”
Over tumbled ruins of wall climbed the four. At a black aperture, scarcely wide enough to permit the passing of a heavy man, Bowen signaled.