“For God’s sake what has happened, Petrie?”
he demanded, and began clutching at the lobe of his
left ear and looking all about the room dazedly.
“The Flower of Silence!” I said; “some
one has been at work in the top corridor....
Heaven knows when, for since we engaged these rooms
we have not been much away from them ... the same
device as in the case of poor Hale.... You would
have tried to brush the thing away ...”
A light of understanding began to dawn in my friend’s
eyes. He drew himself stiffly upright, and in
a loud, harsh voice uttered the words: “Sakya
Muni”—and again: “Sakya
Muni.”
“Thank God!” I said shakily. “I
was not too late.”
Nayland Smith, with much rattling of glass, poured
out two stiff pegs from the decanter. Then—
“Ssh!what’s that?” he whispered.
He stood, tense, listening, his head cast slightly
to one side.
A very faint sound of shuffling and tapping was perceptible,
coming, as I thought, from the incomplete stairway
communicating with the upper corridor.
“The man with the limp!” whispered Smith.
He bounded to the door and actually had one hand upon
the bolt, when he turned, and fixed his gaze upon
the brass box.
“No!” he snapped; “there are occasions
when prudence should rule. Neither of us must
leave these rooms to-night!”
JOHN KI’S
“What is the meaning of Si-Fan?” asked
Detective-sergeant Fletcher.
He stood looking from the window at the prospect below;
at the trees bordering the winding embankment; at
the ancient monolith which for unnumbered ages had
looked across desert sands to the Nile, and now looked
down upon another river of many mysteries. The
view seemed to absorb his attention. He spoke
without turning his head.
Nayland Smith laughed shortly.
“The Si-Fan are the natives of Eastern Tibet,”
he replied.
“But the term has some other significance, sir?”
said the detective; his words were more of an assertion
than a query.
“It has,” replied my friend grimly.
“I believe it to be the name, or perhaps the
sigil, of an extensive secret society with branches
stretching out into every corner of the Orient.”
We were silent for awhile. Inspector Weymouth,
who sat in a chair near the window, glanced appreciatively
at the back of his subordinate, who still stood looking
out. Detective-sergeant Fletcher was one of Scotland
Yard’s coming men. He had information of
the first importance to communicate, and Nayland Smith
had delayed his departure upon an urgent errand in
order to meet him.
“Your case to date, Mr. Smith,” continued
Fletcher, remaining with hands locked behind him,
staring from the window, “reads something like
this, I believe: A brass box, locked, contents
unknown, has come into your possession. It stands
now upon the table there. It was brought from
Tibet by a man who evidently thought that it had something
to do with the Si-Fan. He is dead, possibly by
the agency of members of this group. No arrests
have been made. You know that there are people
here in London who are anxious to regain the box.
You have theories respecting the identity of some
of them, but there are practically no facts.”
