# The Dragon's Claw/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII
THE GLOVE OF VELVET
SOMETHING had surely happened to Howard Remsden. Gone was his attempt at patronizing McNeill, gone was his smug assurance. The man seemed to have shrunk like a balloon from which enough gas has escaped to make the outline flabby. His florid complexion was blotched and there were sagging pouches under his eyes, which themselves held a constant appeal. Something had evidently frightened Remsden badly and he clung to McNeill's hand as would a despairing swimmer to the rescuer.
McNeill was not particularly sorry for him and he did not pretend to be. It was the request of Helen Remsden and the look in her eyes that proclaimed him her champion, that made him more than barely civil to her stepfather. Moreover, whatever peril faced him included her. For his own, he was not bothering just then.
"I want you to read this first, Neill," said Remsden. "I am not good at Chinese script, as you know; then I'll tell you everything. They are after the claw!"
He lowered his voice as a servant entered the library where they were closeted, a magnificent room of carved paneling, carved furniture and gorgeous Oriental hangings and rugs.
"The men have come about putting up the bars, sir," said the servant, the same man who had refused McNeill permission to see Miss Remsden the day before.
Neill held nothing against him for obeying orders—a flunkey must. He when his master tells him, he supposed—and today there was a deference in the man's manner toward the visitor that showed that he was universally regarded in the Remsden household as the man of the hour.
"Tell 'em to begin with my bedroom and Miss Remsden's, Jackson," said Remsden. "I'm having the windows all barred," he said. "The house is otherwise protected but, one never knows."
The hands of the collector and new president of the Philological Museum were visibly trembling. His cocksureness had evaporated but McNeill could not resist getting in one dig.
"Even in America?" he asked.
Remsden reddened.
"Even in America," he admitted. "There are subtle forces at work, McNeill. I feel them. Those two princes——"
He shuddered and passed the scroll of ricepaper that had been fluttering in his nervous hands across to McNeill.
"I found this pinned to my coverlet this morning," he said. "Pinned by this."
He took from a drawer of the massive desk at which he was sitting a pin of soft gold, exquisitely carved in the shape of a dragon.
"The imperial dragon," he said. "Six-clawed! How could it have come there, McNeill? My servants might have been bribed, but they could not lie to me successfully, and the door to my room was locked and bolted. I had locked the shutters of my windows on the outside. I had searched my room before I went to bed. I have been all nerves lately—since yesterday. But there it was."
He went with dragging heels to a sideboard and helped himself to brandy and soda, offering some to McNeill, who, studying the scroll, refused with a shake of his head.
"Want me to read it aloud?" he asked Remsden.
"Yes."
The hesitation in his voice was like that of a prisoner about to hear a death warrant. McNeill studied over the hieroglyphs once more.
"This is a fairly exact translation," he premised.
"Time holds the eternal balances,
But man may weight the scales.
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—from the East—from China!" groaned Remsden. "The maid, that means Helen!"
There was a real note of anguish in his voice that surprized McNeill. He had not thought that Remsden was capable of such genuine affection for the girl. He himself plainly understood the subtle threat and his jaw set hard before he took up the reading:
"Who shall stay the hand of the Reaper?
Only he who hath a clear conscience need not fear him.
Yet restitution may purge the soul,
But the path of the perverse one shall be sown with knives.
Wo, wo unto him who mocks the ghosts of a thousand generations!
The gods are great—and awful is their vengeance!
They strike, and we see not whence comes the blow, nor when.
Neither do their hearts soften to the stubborn evil-doer.
Terror shall go down with him into the Place of Shadows!"
"Well?" asked Remsden. "What do you make of it?"
"It is not time for me to talk yet," said McNeill. "I want some explanations from you. To save your stepdaughter from the fanatic priests, I took back the claw to the temple, not with any eagerness on your part, at that. I saw the claw turned over to the priest and I returned with Helen—with Miss Remsden. Now, in New York, I read that you have presented the claw to the museum and now, for the second time, you tell me that she is in jeopardy on account of it, and on account of your own infernal ambition," he added grimly.
"Now, Remsden, you concealed from me your first depredations from the temple. Don't hide anything from me this time. I warn you that if your stepdaughter's life hangs by a thread, as I believe it does, yours is still closer to annihilation."
He saw in the dilated eyes of Remsden that he, too, realized this. It was not terror for his stepdaughter as much as for himself that had shaken him. She was a pawn seized in the game whose capture left him, the king, open to attack.
"Now then," McNeill went on, "is this claw you have given the museum another, inferior specimen that somewhere you have got hold of or is it a fake that you have perpetrated after having to restore the original. And what cock-and-bull story have you foisted off on the museum concerning it? If it is so, while the princes, knowing the true claw safe and sound, have laughed at you and all America in their Oriental sleeves, you have nevertheless exposed yourself as the man who ravished their sacred shrine, and now they preshadow their revenge.
"Or, is there something deeper? Whatever it is, come clean with it. Helen, whom I love, is in danger. I am included in all likelihood. They tried to bowstring me in California. As for yourself, your death is certain unless intervention comes. And it will not be a pleasant death, Remsden, for all your vaunt of New York police protection, for all your steel bars, I am the only one who might help you, who must help you, for Helen's sake. But you must tell me the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth."
Remsden moistened his lips. Once more he lowered his voice to a whisper, took a long sip of the brandy and water and glanced fearfully about the room.
"It is the original," he said. "The claw in the museum, I mean."
McNeill's jaw began to protrude and his forehead to knit. Remsden hurried on:
"I'll tell you everything, McNeill. It's due you, in a way, I'll grant that. Of course you came out all right. There was no chance of a slip, and I offered you extra compensation for the risk.
"When I told you in Peking that I didn't have the claw and couldn't get it for two days, it was because I had entrusted it to a Chinese jeweler for duplication. A wonderful craftsman, the only man in China, I think, who could have copied it, and you know what wonders the Orientals are at duplication. I had to pay him an enormous sum to overcome his superstitions—almost as much as I paid Fung-Ti in the first place—but he did it. He brought the two to me at the Imperial——"
"I saw the man," said McNeill shortly. "I thought you had referred it to him for an opinion. Go on."
"The facsimile was perfect. I couldn't have known them apart and I made the closest examination. I doubt if the old craftsman himself would have known the difference, once they were juggled, if I hadn't taken the precaution to impregnate the original with ambergris. The perfume sank into the jade and the claw, and some of it still clings. The copy, of course, was unscented."
He sat back with a glint of satisfaction on his features at the cleverness he had shown, but this faded at the sight of McNeill's face.
"So you deliberately sent me back to the Hoang Lung with a duplicate when Helen's life was hanging in the balance! Her honor, the prospect of horrible degradation and torture all depended on it—not to speak of my own safety or my own honor. I swore to Tao Chan that I had kept faith with him. Remsden, there are no words that I am capable of to tell you what I think of you—a man so besotted by his own puny chance for fame that he would——"
"I tell you there was no chance of a slip. The two could not be told apart."
"And what if I had been delayed upon the trip? Your master-craftsman, whose dread you thought you had bought over with your gold, was still the slave of his superstitions. We met him hurrying to Hoang Lung to confess to the trickery. I thought he was merely bearing the news of the theft and laughed at the poor fool. He was death incarnate riding to our destruction! Twenty-four hours after he had passed us Tao Chan knew what you had done.
"I wouldn't give the seed of a dried fig for your life, Remsden, for all your bars and your protection. You have deserved the death of Fung-Ti, in my estimation, you vile imitation of a pariah! If it wasn't that your dirty chicanery involved Helen I would beat you to a pulp and leave this house in the sure knowledge that, if you don't die of heart failure from cowardice, it is because the gods they write of in this script have reserved you for something more appropriate in the way of punishment."
He had risen and was towering over the crumpled Remsden, who was whining in his chair.
"Don't go back on me, McNeill! For Helen's sake! I did not dream of the jeweler's going to Hoang Lung.
"The lives of the three of us are in jeopardy. Yours is forfeit."
"There must be some way out, McNeill—some way."
"There is one chance—to make restitution of the claw. It is possible they may make terms—may keep them. I can see these two princes. They have evidently been communicated with by cable from China. For all their avowal of modern thought, they have still to play politic! at home. I have reason to believe that they can be treated with."
"Yes, I think so. But I can't give them back the claw, McNeill."
"Why not?"
Remsden gulped the rest of his liquor. A stubborn look was on his face.
"Because I can't, and I won't. I've been upset a bit. That paper, and something that happened yesterday—but, —— it, this is America and bigger men than I have been safeguarded for years against greater perils. I'll—I'll go to sea, if necessary, and stay there. I have my own yacht. I'll take Helen with me. You can come along too, if you are so afraid of the vengeance of Tao Chan or whatever his name is. But I won't give it up."
Back of the man's bluster, that yet was not all bluff, for it was backed by determination, McNeill read accurately the reason for his stiffening. He would not sacrifice his own presidency, so long coveted. In all probability it had been obtained by his promise of the relic to the museum. Such arrangements were not uncommon. To take back the claw would mean his resignation, an awkward explanation, perhaps making him the laughing stock of the scientific world. Far rather would Remsden sacrifice any one near and dear to him, even run the chance of death for himself.
"I am not afraid," said McNeill. "It is quite possible that you may be able to safeguard yourself for a time, but I am going to do one thing. I am going to convince Prince Liu Chi and Prince Ten Shin of the absolute innocence of Helen and myself in this matter. After that you can do as you please. If I can't convince them I shall give out the true story of the claw."
"Ah-ha! To whom? The press? Do you think they would believe you—take the word of a penniless adventurer against Howard Remsden? I would say you were attempting to blackmail me."
"You would be very sorry if you did, Remsden," replied McNeill quietly. "Very sorry, I assure you, but there is no use wrangling. I'll see the princes. As for yourself, you seem to have changed your attitude since I arrived. It may be the brandy or perhaps your nerves react swiftly. If I can get what I deem satisfactory assurance from Liu Chi and Ten Shin as to the safety of your stepdaughter and myself, why, you can take your own measures for protection. They may be quite sufficient, if expensive. Good morning."
"Hold on a minute, McNeill. There is no good wrangling, as you say. I'm getting on a bit. Never used to know what nerves were, like you. It's indigestion; that's what it is. But you'll let me know how you come out with the princes, won't you?"
Neill reflected. It would give him a good reason for coming back—a chance to see Helen.
"You said something happened yesterday," he said. "At the meeting when you gave your address, I suppose. What was it?"
"Doubtless I exaggerated it," said Remsden.
The colossal conceit and egoism of the man had already restored him from the fright caused by the finding of the paper pinned to his counterpane. Now a shadow of fear was visible. He hesitated.
"It was awkward—unexpected," he began, "I mean the presence in New York of Liu Chi and Ten Shin. Then some of the committee asked them to be present and the press took it up. It was embarrassing. I had to change the talk I had prepared in some measure."
Remsden got fiery red under McNeill's shrewd look.
"But it went off well enough until it came to meeting the princes. I say well enough, though I had felt all through my speech that they were laughing at me—you know what I mean, McNeill, those ivory faces, motionless, the smooth lids that don't open like a white man's, they just slit apart and you see their black eyes laughing at you, like mocking devils. And, when they shook hands, it was like touching the skin of a snake!
"'Hands across the sea,' that's what Liu Chi said, 'we are not so far apart, Mr. Remsden, after all.' That was a threat, all right—a touch of the velvet glove. Nothing of the hatchetman method about those two slick yellow devils, McNeill. And they smiled when they handled the claw. I had a wild idea that they might try to claim it. I would never have made the presentation if I had known of their presence in the country, but they just smiled with their eyes and gave it back to Forsythe, our curator, who was watching them as he does every one, even me, with the eyes of a hawk. The gift belongs to the museum and he is responsible. Every one is a possible thief in his eyes."
"I suppose," commented McNeill, "that all ancient curios may be styled stolen goods. The dead and their habitations have been ravished of jewels; temples of their carvings and inscriptions——"
"That's it exactly, Neill," broke in Remsden. "That's the point of view you must take. Science must not be judged, however, by the rules applied to the living. I do not consider myself a thief but a——"
"A benefactor." The sarcasm was lost.
"It was the way the prince said 'we are not so far apart,' that impressed me. They are both in it. They mean to get it. They were at the bottom of the attempted robbery last night."
"If it had been possible for the duplicated claw to get across," said McNeill, "they might have made a shift. That would have eased matters. But it would take some powerful influence to make Tao Chan let even the copy go. The shrine has worshipers and he will not let the common people know of the substitution. It would spell peril for him to be without the fetish.
"But I will let you know the result of my interview. Now, for my own business. I would like to see Miss Helen. I might tell you that those affairs of mine are no longer in the air. They are being exploited with ample capital and protection."
"I am glad to hear it, glad to hear it, I am sure. Wish you every success." Remsden touched a bell. "Tell Miss Helen that Mr. McNeill would like to see her, Jackson."
McNeill found Helen Remsden in her own parlor. Thankful that she was not the type that required reservations, he told her frankly that there was a certain menace concerning the claw. That her stepfather had fallen in her estimation was evident. She had thought the present he had made to the museum was merely a clever substitution and, though she said nothing as to the risk to which they had been exposed at the Hoang Lung temple, her manner conveyed her opinion of the man who had prompted it.
"I think I can remove the menace," said McNeill, "but your father——"
"My stepfather," she corrected pointedly.
"Your stepfather must be made to return the claw."
"He will not do that," she affirmed. "He would have to degrade himself in his own light. The museum would have to acknowledge having been deceived. He would lose his presidency."
"I think there may be a way out," said McNeill. "I am to come again tomorrow. Shall I see you?"
"Certainly. I shall be glad."
McNeill went off happily, but he had all his wits about him and he did not fail to see a man, who had been lounging at the corner, slouchingly follow. Neill had dismissed his taxi and now he swung into the park. His shadow persisted and McNeill led him on at a smart pace, turning a corner abruptly and hiding behind some shrubbery. He saw the man go by and saw also, stamped on his skull-like face, the evidence of opium.
"I shall have an interesting interview with our Oriental potentates, I fancy," he told himself as he caught a bus to return to his hotel.
His room was made up. Pinned to the pillow-sham was a gold dragon, six-clawed, made into a stick pin. McNeill shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing small about their methods," he said aloud, then deliberately removed the pearl from the scarf and replaced it with the emblem of the dragon-king.