Walk on left two blocks and the lama’s house is right opposite. Jump to it. It’s urgent!”
Giving Tony’s arm a reassuring squeeze, Nayland Smith turned and hurried back along the way they had come.
Tony gave a parting glance to the tall figure, then turned left and hurried along the narrow street. He passed the first alley he came to, reached the second, and pulled up, staring anxiously at the house indicated.
It was an old house, the front quaintly decorated, and as he slipped into a small passage, immediately he noticed a smell of incense.
The passage was very dark. He began to walk quietly along. As his eyes became used to this gloom, he saw two doors ahead. The one directly before him was closed. The other, on the right, was open a few inches, and light showed through the cranny.
Walking on tiptoe, he reached it, hesitated…
“Please come in,” a pleasant old voice invited, speaking a pure Chinese of a kind he rarely heard.
He pushed the door open.
He was in a room furnished as a library. Shelves were packed with scrolls of parchment and bound books. There was a shrine directly facing the door. Incense burned in a bronze bowl. And squatting behind a long, low table on which a yellow manuscript was spread, he saw a very old man who wore the same kind of lama robe as Nayland Smith had worn.
The old man removed his spectacles and looked up. Tony found himself being analyzed by a pair of eyes which seemed—like the dreadful eyes of Fu-Manchu—to read his thoughts. But these were kindly eyes.
There was a wooden stool near the door. He sat down and listened for sounds from the street. He had to say something.
“Your door was open, Excellency.”
“My door is always open to those who may need me. Nor have I achieved excellency, my son.”
Tony became tongue-tied.
“I perceive,” the gentle voice went on, “that you are in some urgent danger. Give me the facts, and leave it to me to decide if I may justly help you.”
“There are people out there who want to arrest me.” This confession was considered quietly.
“Have you committed any crime?”
“No, my father. My only crime is that I tried to help China, where I was born.”
Then, the lama smiled again and said an unexpected but welcome thing.
“Have you seen a man with a crutch?”
Tony jumped up in his glad excitement.
“What is the name of his crutch?” he asked hoarsely.
“Freedom, my son. You are welcome.” He began to speak almost faultless English. “You are Captain McKay, for whom Sir Denis Nayland Smith is searching.”
“By God, he found me out there and saved me from the mob!”
“He felt responsible for your safety. I hope he will join us shortly. No one saw you together?”
“I believe not. A big Nubian, who is the personal bodyguard of the man you call ‘the Master’ and who knows me, has just come into the town.”
“Has he seen you?”
“Not to my knowledge. But there’s a boy—”
He got no further. Splitting the perfumed quiet of the room, came the uproar, “Escaped prisoner! Search all the houses! Reward for whoever…”
Tony felt the sharp pang of despair. A group had gathered just outside the house. The old lama raised his hand.
“Pray don’t disturb yourself, my son.”
He stood up. He proved to be much taller than Tony had judged. There was quiet dignity in his bearing. He went out, leaving the door ajar. Tony reached it in one stride and stood there, breathlessly listening.
Communist China might be irreligious, but the old beliefs still swayed the masses. Sudden silence fell on the babble outside. It was broken by the gentle voice.
“What troubles you, my children?”
A chorus replied. There was a dangerous criminal hiding in the town. They were going to search all the houses.
“As you please. Search by all means—but not here. There is no criminal, dangerous or otherwise, in my house. And you are interrupting my studies.”
Tony heard him coming back. He heard mutterings
Giving Tony’s arm a reassuring squeeze, Nayland Smith turned and hurried back along the way they had come.
Tony gave a parting glance to the tall figure, then turned left and hurried along the narrow street. He passed the first alley he came to, reached the second, and pulled up, staring anxiously at the house indicated.
It was an old house, the front quaintly decorated, and as he slipped into a small passage, immediately he noticed a smell of incense.
The passage was very dark. He began to walk quietly along. As his eyes became used to this gloom, he saw two doors ahead. The one directly before him was closed. The other, on the right, was open a few inches, and light showed through the cranny.
Walking on tiptoe, he reached it, hesitated…
“Please come in,” a pleasant old voice invited, speaking a pure Chinese of a kind he rarely heard.
He pushed the door open.
He was in a room furnished as a library. Shelves were packed with scrolls of parchment and bound books. There was a shrine directly facing the door. Incense burned in a bronze bowl. And squatting behind a long, low table on which a yellow manuscript was spread, he saw a very old man who wore the same kind of lama robe as Nayland Smith had worn.
The old man removed his spectacles and looked up. Tony found himself being analyzed by a pair of eyes which seemed—like the dreadful eyes of Fu-Manchu—to read his thoughts. But these were kindly eyes.
There was a wooden stool near the door. He sat down and listened for sounds from the street. He had to say something.
“Your door was open, Excellency.”
“My door is always open to those who may need me. Nor have I achieved excellency, my son.”
Tony became tongue-tied.
“I perceive,” the gentle voice went on, “that you are in some urgent danger. Give me the facts, and leave it to me to decide if I may justly help you.”
“There are people out there who want to arrest me.” This confession was considered quietly.
“Have you committed any crime?”
“No, my father. My only crime is that I tried to help China, where I was born.”
Then, the lama smiled again and said an unexpected but welcome thing.
“Have you seen a man with a crutch?”
Tony jumped up in his glad excitement.
“What is the name of his crutch?” he asked hoarsely.
“Freedom, my son. You are welcome.” He began to speak almost faultless English. “You are Captain McKay, for whom Sir Denis Nayland Smith is searching.”
“By God, he found me out there and saved me from the mob!”
“He felt responsible for your safety. I hope he will join us shortly. No one saw you together?”
“I believe not. A big Nubian, who is the personal bodyguard of the man you call ‘the Master’ and who knows me, has just come into the town.”
“Has he seen you?”
“Not to my knowledge. But there’s a boy—”
He got no further. Splitting the perfumed quiet of the room, came the uproar, “Escaped prisoner! Search all the houses! Reward for whoever…”
Tony felt the sharp pang of despair. A group had gathered just outside the house. The old lama raised his hand.
“Pray don’t disturb yourself, my son.”
He stood up. He proved to be much taller than Tony had judged. There was quiet dignity in his bearing. He went out, leaving the door ajar. Tony reached it in one stride and stood there, breathlessly listening.
Communist China might be irreligious, but the old beliefs still swayed the masses. Sudden silence fell on the babble outside. It was broken by the gentle voice.
“What troubles you, my children?”
A chorus replied. There was a dangerous criminal hiding in the town. They were going to search all the houses.
“As you please. Search by all means—but not here. There is no criminal, dangerous or otherwise, in my house. And you are interrupting my studies.”
Tony heard him coming back. He heard mutterings
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