HE banquet that was to be the talk of New York for many a day had progressed with wonderful éclat. The costumes of the guests, the elaborately bizarre decorations, the strange music, the unusual dishes spiced with a bountiful supply of occidental vintages, the courtesy of the hosts, the exotic atmosphere—all had made the affair a success from the start. Rare souvenirs, not to be priced, had augmented the entente cordiale.
With the cessation of gastronomies came an entertainment of wizardry, of parlor acrobatics, of indoor fireworks, until the bewildered beholders were brought to the tiring point.
Then, at the sound of a gong, a booth was brought in—a hooded tent of silken brocades, and Ten Shin arose.
"Much of which you have so courteously shared with us tonight," he said, "belongs to the past—the passing China soon, we hope, to be revivified with lessons learned from American ingenuity and advancement. But there is one element that always appeals, particularly to the fair sex. That element is the future. A member of our little embassy has arrived today from China, bringing important matters and, while he has been too fatigued from his long and accelerated journey to join us, he has consented to give some manifestation of his skill as a diviner."
There was a murmur of anticipatory delight and again the gong sounded. From behind high curtains four Chinamen, dressed in vivid emerald silk, brought forward a palanquin of brightest scarlet lacquer on which were illuminated golden dragons in raised and lustrous metal work. Six-clawed they were, noted McNeill, tense with the sense of something pregnant. This they placed by the tent and disappeared.
A weird chant, high pitched, nerve thrilling, came from unseen musicians, the shrill piping of the Chinese clarionet and the twang of the gekken. The room was very quiet and the lights grew gradually dim. Then the scarlet curtains of the palanquin glowed fiery red, faint streaks of light appeared through the folds of the tent and a figure emerged from the carriage. It was clad in silk of the vividest yellow and the robes, McNeill noticed, as his fingers gripped those of Helen next to him, were of priestly cut. The figure was squat. In its rotundity it might have been ludicrous, save for a certain dignity that emanated from it and because of that of the two princely hosts. The face, projecting from the folds of the hood, was that of a turtle—was that of Tao Chan, high-priest of the Hoang Lung.
McNeill was not surprized. But he marked the effort Helen made to suppress her feelings of astonishment and, perhaps, of terror, though there was, as he assured her, no fear of anything out of the way happening there with so many American guests present. Yet there was something that thrilled him with a sense of hidden power—of mystery. He glanced at Remsden. Remsden was staring at Tao Chan as he might have looked at a basilisk, his eyes projecting, his lower jaw sagging.
Tao Chan had evidently arrived with the duplicate, leaving some excuse, or perhaps a second replica, behind him. This one was to be exchanged for the original. Everybody's face was to be saved. Helen, by Chinese drugs, to be cured, Remsden to be left as president, and relieved of his Damoclean fate. Only the museum would suffer and be none the worse for it, thought McNeill, knowing other spurious objects venerated there as real.
He, Neill McNeill, had brought this about by taking advantage of China's position as the Sick Man of Asia, looking to America for aid. The princes had come with a dual purpose—to get the claw and to establish friendly relations. Which cause they held the greater McNeill did not venture to imagine. He did not care, feeling certain that the evening would see the end of their troubles unless Remsden proved obstinate. In this case McNeill promised himself that he would devise a little pressure on his own account.
Ten Shin turned to the lady on his right.
"Would you read the future?" he asked her. "I am sure that for you it will be rosy."
Tao Chan had entered the little tent and taken his seat before a stand of dark wood, the legs formed of writhing dragons. There was a dish in front of him.
"You will not be spirited away, I assure you," went on the prince. "I will not guarantee that you will not be enchanted, but turn about is fair play."
The guest laughed nervously at his raillery but consented to enter the tent. The curtains closed and there was only a low murmur to be heard, drowned largely by the rising notes of the orchestra. In less than two minutes the woman came out.
"Your wizard is a flatterer, prince," she said. "I wish I could believe half he promised, though he does not speak very good English."