It was but a few moments after midnight, when I entered the house in Kingsgate Street, and it must have been nearly or quite an hour before I finally removed the bag from my head and realized the nature of my surroundings. Immediately after the attack upon me, I was lifted bodily by two or three silent figures, and carried a considerable distance, part of the way down a steep flight of stairs, and through what from its damp and musty smell might have been a tunnel or cellar. Presently I heard the opening of a heavy door, and in a moment I was thrown roughly upon a bench, and my pockets were systematically searched. My captors evidently were not looking for money for the only things they took from me were my keys. After this they left me, huddled up in a corner of the bench, afraid to cry out or make a move in any direction.

The room in which I now found myself was as silent as the tomb, and yet, from some subtle instinct, I felt that it was lighted brightly, and that there were others in it besides myself. I could feel that it was warm, and through the folds of the bag about my head came the acrid, half-sweet smell of opium or Chinese incense, or both. I realized at once that I was in the hands of some of Li Min's friends, and no doubt the note which purported to come from McQuade had been merely a decoy. How, I wondered, did they know my address? Possibly they had followed my cab from the station. I recollected now with vividness the interview I had witnessed, the afternoon before, between Li Min and some fellow countryman of his at the gateway in the hedge back of The Oaks. No doubt the crafty Oriental had in some way kept his confederates in London fully posted as to both my movements and those of Sergeant McQuade. What on earth they could want with me I was unable to imagine. I reached out softly with my right hand—I had not been bound—and touched a wall, hung with heavy embroidered satin. The bench upon which I sat was of hard polished wood. I reached up quickly, loosed the cord which held the bag tightly about my neck, and, with a swift motion, lifted it from my head.

The sight I beheld astounded me. I was in a long, low room, the bench upon which I sat being at the extreme end of it. The walls were hung from end to end with bright-colored satin, wonderfully embroidered with birds, flowers, dragons and strange Chinese characters. The floor was of wood, dark, and polished with the walking of many soft-shod feet. Facing me at the far end of the room was a great red-and-gold wooden screen, carved and lacquered, and representing some mysterious Chinese figures, whether gods or demons I could not tell. In the center of this screen was an opening, a sort of altar, brightly lighted by a large number of wax candles within which hung a representation of the god Buddha, marvelously embroidered upon dull red satin, with gold and silver threads. Behind the candles stood a small gold casket, or shrine, the door of which was standing open, disclosing an empty interior. The altar in front of the candles was covered with a profusion of dishes containing flowers, rice and other foods. Before the altar knelt a tall, gaunt figure, his back turned toward me, bowed in prayer. He wore a long, dark-brown robe, girdled loosely about the waist with a leather belt, and his gray hair was confined in a long queue which hung below his waist. He took no notice whatever of my movements, and remained in silent contemplation of the picture of the god before him. A number of sticks of incense were burning in a brass jar upon the altar, and the room was filled with a thin, waving blue haze, which circled softly around the great painted silk lanterns which hung from the ceiling. I felt as though I had been suddenly and mysteriously transported from a dark and gloomy London street to some wonderful temple in the far-off city of Pekin. I rubbed my eyes, and moved uneasily upon my hard bench, but no movement upon the part of the silent worshiper indicated that he so much as knew of my presence.

I endured the tension of the situation for several minutes in silence, and had about made up my mind to speak to the kneeling figure before me, when suddenly a door at my left was opened, and I observed two dark and forbidding-looking Chinamen enter, carrying between them a limp and apparently lifeless figure, which they placed upon the bench beside me. The figure was that of a man, and he was not blindfolded as I had been, and, as I bent over and glanced at his bloodless face, I recoiled, sick and trembling. It was Sergeant McQuade.

The Chinamen paid no attention to me, and quietly withdrew. I placed my hand upon the detective's heart, and was overjoyed to find that it still beat. I dragged him to a sitting position, and shook him, hoping to arouse him from his lethargy. In a few moments I saw his eyes slowly open, and he clutched feebly at his throat. I followed his movements and found a heavy cord about his neck, so tightly drawn as almost to prevent him from breathing. This I quickly removed, and in a few moments he was able to speak. His first words, after a glance of intense surprise at our surroundings, were to ask me why I had sent for him. I told him that I had not done so.

"But you sent me a note, asking me to come to this address at once, that you had important news. I have two men outside, but these devils got me before I could blow my whistle. Not much use to try it now," he observed, looking about grimly.

"I sent you no note," I replied. "On the contrary, I got one from you. That is why I am here."

"We are both nicely trapped, it seems," he growled. "I wonder what these fellows are up to. They have searched me, but they took nothing, so far as I can see. I can't figure the thing out at all. What have you learned—anything?" He turned to me with a quick look of interrogation.

"Nothing. They took my bunch of keys, and left me here about an hour ago. I am as much in the dark as you are."

"Your keys," he muttered, softly; "your keys. What could they have wanted with them?" He seemed lost in thought.

Our further conversation was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door on our left. Some score or more of Chinamen crowded in, and were at once joined by the figure of the priest, who rose to his feet and advanced toward the center of the room. He was a terrible-looking old man, his face drawn and leathery, his eyes like burning coals, his mouth cruel and thin-lipped. All the others seemed to pay him deep respect. One of their number advanced and handed him a large object which he eagerly grasped. It was my Gladstone bag. McQuade and I glanced at each other in sudden comprehension. "It's my bag," I whispered to him. Now I knew at least why they had taken from me my keys.

The old priest placed the bag upon the floor and, kneeling beside it, proceeded to open it with eager, trembling hands. The others crowded about, every face tense and full of expectation. The kneeling figure proceeded slowly to remove and examine every article of clothing, throwing each one impatiently aside as he apparently failed to find that for which he sought. Presently his eye fell upon the small, green cake of soap which I had thrown loosely into the bag upon my departure from The Oaks. He seized it with a cry of triumph, and, taking a knife from his girdle, proceeded with extreme care to cut the cake of soap in two. The crowding figures about him hung upon his movements with intense anxiety. The room was as silent as death. I heard McQuade's muffled breathing as he watched the old man's every move, but I could see from the expression of his face that the scene meant no more to him than it did to me. Suddenly, with a loud cry, the priest broke the cake of soap in two, and there, within it, in a cavity about two inches long, lay the lost emerald Buddha, its wonderful color flashing and glowing in the light from the lantern above. I was absolutely dumb with amazement. Undeniably there before me lay the cause of Mr. Ashton's death, yet how it came to be in that cake of soap, and what light its presence there threw upon the manner of his sudden and tragic end, was beyond my comprehension. At least, however, I understood why Li Min had tried to make away with my satchel, but the fact that the presence of the jewel among my belongings might cause suspicion to point in my direction did not for the moment occur to me. It evidently did, however, to McQuade, as I before long had reason to know.

The kneeling priest rose to his feet with a glad cry, and, holding the image reverently in the hollow of his two hands, advanced toward the altar, the others crowding closely about him. Arrived at the shrine, he placed the figure carefully upon its pedestal within the golden casket, and, as the light of many candles fell full upon it, the whole crowd knelt down and began a weird sing-song prayer, that must have been a chant of joy, or some service of purification, now that their long-lost deity had been returned to them. Presently the strange sounds died away, and the various Chinamen placed offerings of fruit, flowers and food upon the altar. At length the priest rose, and faced us. The service was over. I had a feeling that our turn was now to come.

The tall, gaunt figure came close to us, and examined both our faces minutely. I fancy he was the same priest that Ashton had all but done for in Ping Yang, and, from his look of intense hatred and ferocity, I feel sure that, had he recognized McQuade or myself as either his assailant, or Major Temple, our moments in this life would have been numbered. He must of course have heard of Ashton's death, but no doubt he wanted to make sure that Ashton was actually the man who had so nearly strangled him. After completing his scrutiny of our far from happy faces, he drew back, and in answer apparently to the questions of his followers shook his head vigorously. Then ensued a heated altercation between himself and part of the Chinamen on the one hand and the remainder of the crowd on the other, the subject of which, I could plainly see, was the fate of the detective and myself. At last they all turned back to the altar, and the priest took from it two pieces of wood, slightly curved, some four or five inches long, and shaped not unlike the half of a banana, if it were cut in two lengthwise: that is, round on one side and flat upon the other. I saw that they were the Chinese luck sticks, which the petitioner casts before the altar, wishing as he does so, for that prayer which he desires the god to grant him. If the sticks fall with the flat sides of both upward, he is lucky—his prayer is granted; if with the flat sides of both downward, his prayer is refused. If one stick falls each way, there is no decision and the trial is made again. As the priest took up these sticks from the altar, a gleam of comprehension passed over the faces of the crowd about him. Several of their number sprang forward and, seizing us by the arms, dragged us before the altar. It was evidently their intention to leave the matter of our fate in the hands of the Buddha, and, as I glanced at the peaceful and beneficent face of the image before me, I wondered whether he, or blind luck, would control our destinies.

McQuade they took first. He was led directly in front of the altar, and the two sticks, placed with the flat sides, together, were put into his hands. He was then directed, by signs and a few muttered English words, to cast them upon the slab before the altar. He did so, not in the least understanding, I felt sure, what it was all about, and in a moment the hardwood sticks clattered before the altar. I leaned forward anxiously and looked at them. The flat sides of both were upward. McQuade was safe. The Chinamen thrust him aside angrily, and bent upon me their angry glances. I was pushed forward by many hands, and the luck sticks forced into my unwilling fingers. I had never thought much about death, and now it approached me in all its grisly terrors. McQuade had been spared my agony, for I felt sure he did not know the meaning of the ceremony through which he had just passed. He had thrown dice with death, and won, and yet he did not know it. But, to me, the trial came in all its horrible reality. I knew that upon the fall of those bits of wood depended my life, that within a few seconds of time I would either be free, or condemned to die by one of those unspeakably horrible means that only the Chinese understand and delight in. Their deity had been profaned and they wanted a victim, and, if his down-turned thumb claimed me as a sacrifice, I knew that no power on earth could save me. I shook with nervous dread—not so much through fear of death itself as of the manner of dying. My hands trembled; I could scarcely keep the sticks from falling to the floor. Presently I pulled myself together and determined to put a brave face upon the matter. The Chinamen about me were evidently enjoying my sufferings keenly as I could see from the diabolic grins upon their dark faces. I threw the sticks from me with a quick nervous movement, and then almost feared to look upon them. At last I did so, and what I saw was almost as bad as what I feared to see. Instead of the two flat sides of the sticks being uppermost, they lay one each way, and I was forced to throw again. The Chinese were evidently delighted. Any method of torture which is prolonged seems to please them beyond measure. I have heard that one of the most terrible they have invented is that of keeping a prisoner awake. For days and days sleep is prevented—the victim ultimately goes raving mad.

I determined to end the matter at once. My nerves were too much shaken to prolong the agony. I cast the sticks again upon the altar slab and bent over them with a prayer to God. One stick fell at once with its flat side uppermost. The other rolled over and over until it rested almost at the Buddha's feet. At last it trembled, half turned over, then stopped. It, like the other, gave the favorable sign. I was saved. In the sudden relief from the nervous tension I almost fell, but the Chinamen, cheated of their revenge, gave me no time for any such exhibitions of emotion. McQuade and I were seized, and in a few moments our arms were tightly bound behind us, and heavy bags similar to the one I had worn were placed over our heads. We were then roughly hurried through a series of rooms, once crossing what seemed to be a brick-paved court, which was undoubtedly in the open air, from the sudden change of temperature I experienced; then for an interminable distance through what seemed to be dark, narrow lanes and muddy streets, until at last our hoods were removed, our feet bound, and we were thrown into a narrow area way, some cotton waste being jammed into each of our mouths to prevent our making any outcry. Here we were discovered at daybreak, some four or five hours later, nearly frozen to death, by a watchman, who released us from our bonds and, upon hearing from Sergeant McQuade who he was, hastened to find us a cab.

Our first step after it came was to drive to the nearest public house and get each a steaming drink of hot brandy, after which we ate a hasty breakfast. The detective, who seemed thoughtful and little inclined to talk, then drove at once to Number 30, Kingsgate Street, and, finding his two men still on duty, ordered them to enter the house. The bell was first rung several times without any response, and then McQuade and his men burst in the door. There were no lights within, and, when the long-closed shutters were at last forced open, it was seen at once that the house was completely unfurnished. We descended into the cellar, but found no signs of occupancy anywhere. The place had evidently been long closed. McQuade looked about in perplexity. Evidently there was a tunnel somewhere, leading from this house to some other in the neighborhood, or else the Chinamen had boldly carried us out through the backyard and into some house adjoining. The Sergeant explained the case to his men, ordered them to return to Scotland Yard, obtain a relief and investigate every house in the block, and even those on the opposite side of the street, since a tunnel might as well have led in that direction as any other. Personally I felt no great interest in the capture of the Chinamen. They had the emerald Buddha, it is true, but they had a better right to it than ever Ashton had, I fancy, and, now that he was dead, it seemed useless to bring trouble upon his relatives, in case he had any, by placing in their hands so dangerous an article. I was infinitely more concerned in determining who was responsible for Robert Ashton's death, and I could not see that the events of the evening had thrown much light upon it. I left McQuade and returned to my studio, agreeing to meet him there at three the same afternoon, and return to The Oaks with him. Just why he intended returning there, or why he wished me to accompany him, I did not then see, but I was only too glad of an opportunity again to see Miss Temple. The detective seemed especially serious and taciturn, and, in reply to my questions as to the two Chinamen from Exeter, he informed me that they knew nothing of the matter and had been discharged. I went back to my studio in rather an unpleasant frame of mind, took a hot bath, and slept until luncheon.