# The Dragon's Claw/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX.
THE WHITE DEATH
THE next day the princes went to Washington by invitation to see the sights of the Capital City. Their suite was still reserved, but McNeill breathed a little more easily. The menace hanging over Helen seemed less imminent though he could neither dismiss nor fathom the suggestion of Ten Shin that it had already fallen, and it had been an assertion rather than a suggestion. But the days went by and she appeared as blooming as ever, while Remsden himself completely regained his poise.
No national president was better safeguarded than was he night and day; the protection extending to his stepdaughter. He no longer affected to hold McNeill at a distance. The Irishman's polite covering of the contempt in which he held Remsden may have enraged him, but it also forced him to at least an equal politeness, as a lion will go through tricks it hates from fear of the tamer and his whip.
There were few allusions to the claw. Twice McNeill urged Remsden to do something toward the restoration of the claw, to communicate with the princes at their hotel in Washington, but, confident in the power of his little army of protectors, he stubbornly refused to discuss the question.
It was a week after the departure of Liu Chi and his cousin that Helen made a complaint that struck fear into the heart of McNeill, ever alert for danger against the girl he loved and, who, he had reason to believe, returned his love. In the shadow that he still feared hung over them all, he had not spoken to her openly, but there were a hundred signs that cheer even despairing lovers, and McNeill was far from being despondent.
He had definitely made up his mind to force Remsden's hand upon the princes' return, scheduled for the tenth day after they left for Washington. Their banquet had been set for the following evening and all New York, especially that part of its social center that had not been invited, was agog over the rumored extravagance of the affair.
It was to be an Arabian Nights entertainment, it was said. There would be magic wrought in more ways than one, and all the fabled magnificence of Aladdin's gardens would fade before the spectacle of the feast to be spread in the private suite of their imperial highnesses as the society columns, still secretly delighting in titles, styled these two Chinamen who claimed to be representatives of a new republic. Guests had been asked to attend in Oriental garb, and all the glamour of a fancy-dress affair fascinated the fashion-writers and stimulated the curiosity and envy of those not fortunate enough to receive invitations.
Remsden, rather in fear than bravado, McNeill thought, had accepted for himself and Helen, and Neill himself had likewise signified his intention of being present. Helen and he were discussing costumes when she presented her finger for his inspection.
"It is numb, Neill," she said. "First it was the upper joint and now it is the second—the same finger I pricked so badly with those roses I thought you sent me. I can't bend it between those two joints at all. Look at it."
As McNeill took the tapering finger a strange fear gripped his heart. The mention of the roses seemed to have promoted the presentiment. Helen's hand was white, well kept, the texture of a gardenia petal, though the tips showed the faint rose-hue of perfect health. The index finger of the right hand was the one she complained about, and McNeill noticed that it was subtly different from the rest.
He could bend it between the first and second joints but there was no reflex action. The nail lacked color and the pinkness of the tip was entirely missing. The flesh was unshriveled, but it had a frozen look; it was like a finger carved in alabaster, a finger of Galatea with all the rest of the beautiful statue come to life.
A tiny, light-brown speck marked where the sharp thorns of the American beauties had punctured the skin and drawn blood. There was a smaller mark lower down, made in the same way. He strove to hide his premonition. He dared not gaze into her face, though presently he would have to force himself to that inspection, he knew quite well.
"How long have you noticed this?" he asked.
"Since the morning after the thorns pricked me," she answered. "I thought nothing of it, but it has steadily grown worse. I asked Dr. Hastings about it and he thought there might be some slight local infection, but it has not swelled; it has simply lost all sensation. He didn't seem to consider it very serious. It is my sewing finger, and I do sew occasionally," she laughed, "so I have noticed it."
"By the way," asked McNeill casually, though he made a strong effort to control his voice, "you never found out who sent you those roses?"
"No—no one has claimed the honor. You are quite sure you didn't leave a standing order, Neill? It would be like you."
"Quite sure. I wouldn't worry about this if I were you. It will probably pass."
"Oh, I won't worry about it. It is probably a matter of circulation. I'll have to be more careful of my diet and cut off candy I suppose."
Neill laughed with her and then, deliberately forcing back all emotion, he proceeded to the test he dreaded.
"Won't you play something?" he asked, steadying his voice.
She went over to the piano and Neill made a point of choosing something that she must play by note. To aid her in this he turned on the piano lights and then settled himself in a chair that gave him a good view of her face, turning it, as she did occasionally, toward him. To the ordinary observer there would have seemed nothing out of the ordinary, save that the face was very fair to look upon with its perfect oval, the scarlet lips and the steady, large eyes beneath curving, delicately penciled brows. It was at these latter that Neill directed his closest attention, though he managed to hide it from her, smiling when he met her gaze.
When he left her that night, his nails had cut deeply into his palms.
"The cowards!" he said. "The curs! And there is no remedy!"
At the hotel he made discreet inquiries at the flower stand—inquiries sped by a jovial talk and augmented with a liberal tip. He traced the flowers. There had been no special attempt to hide their source, save from the lack of a card—a matter easily explained by blaming an underling secretary who would shoulder the responsibility in case of inquiry. They had been ordered by the secretary of the two Chinese princes. A not too unusual compliment from the distinguished foreigners to the daughter of the president of the museum whose soiree they had attended, and who had been placed on the list of guests at their banquet.
The flowers and their deadly thorns had faded and long since been cast away, not to be recovered.
But they had accomplished their purpose. Achieved the deadly end of the fiends who had sent them. How had the Chinese scribe written?
"A maid and a flower—both are beautiful.
Yet, when the wind blows from the East,
Lo, they perish as straws in the furnace!
The wind had blown from the East. Helen was doomed. Doomed with the living death, the White Death of China—leprosy!
McNeill had suspected it in the numbing, thorn-pricked finger, had confirmed it in the slight but unmistakable leonine cast of her brows, a suggestion of furrows and puffed flesh that is one of the symptoms of the disease. Leprosy was infectious and the thorns had been impregnated by the deadly virus. The evidence was destroyed, but the girl was sentenced to a loathsome, ever encroaching dissolution, from which there was no cure. Only a horrible segregation under the law.
Black murder welled up in McNeill, but he forced it down. Remsden was the one to blame primarily and he, too, would be hard hit, for Neill felt that he loved his stepdaughter. As for the Orientals, they had been hit and they had struck back according to their lights. And Helen? His clear brain reeled for a few moments as he contemplated the awful fate ahead of her—a fate that he determined to share as nearly as he would be allowed. Yet there must be, should be, a reckoning. First doctors must be privately consulted, Helen must be persuaded to see them on some pretext, the stiffening of her finger, the lack of circulation, but she must not be allowed to suspect. It would drive a girl of her vitality, her love of life, her sensitiveness, insane.
For himself he could only determine one course. He could bluff up some evidence, confront the princes. To what definite avail he knew not but he must find some vent for his own overmastering fury at the unfair blow. And Remsden should not be spared. His selfish pride should be humiliated. The claw should be returned. Perhaps——