With a cool shrug of his shoulders, the pseudo count returned to a study of his manicured fingers. He’d understood from Hammond that there was little love lost between dashing AndrÉ Borg and the saturnine Chinese, Cho-San. If that were true, a pose of insulting indifference would be the safest.

In any case, it seemed to be working now. As Don continued to ignore his presence, the big Oriental stood glowering beside the table. Like a huge frog, he seemed to swell with silent rage. Suddenly he beckoned the anxiously hovering headwaiter.

“Another chair, Maurice!” he growled in a heavy bass. “Mademoiselle Lotus seems to be in the company of an idiot. I shall stay to protect her, in case he becomes a worse nuisance. Bring me a chair, quickly!”

As Maurice hurried to obey, Lotus half arose, her hands clasping and unclasping in distress.

“Please, Cho-San!” she choked. “Be patient with AndrÉ—Count Borg, I mean! Five days ago he received a wound on the head, while carrying out your orders. Since then his mind has not been the same....”

“Evidently not!” grated the Chinese, seating himself in the chair Maurice had brought. “No man in his right mind deliberately insults Cho-San, though your AndrÉ has come very near to doing so in times past. Well, Borg, have you lost your tongue as well as your reason? You had it at three o’clock this morning when you made this appointment with my ward.”

“So your watchman overheard and told you about that, Cho-San!” drawled the pretended Borg, as Maurice glided away. “I thought he would, but I’m surprised you were interested enough to follow Lotus and me here. Er—by the way, it’s quite true about that head wound I got. My memory has blanked out. It’s only now and then I recall something that’s happened in the past few years. Of course, I know you and Lotus, here; but how and why and where you came into my life I haven’t the faintest idea! Awful nuisance, isn’t it?”

For sixty long seconds, Cho-San stared at “Count Borg’s” handsome, rather bored features. His sloe-black eyes were so wickedly penetrating that Don was glad his disguise didn’t depend on paint or false hair. Even the tiny scar below his eye was genuine. For the rest, Don hoped that he had copied Count Borg’s own voice and manner successfully.

At last Cho-San’s big body relaxed its angry tenseness. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a smoother inflection.

“I would give a great deal to know just what has changed about you, my dear Count,” he remarked. “It may be your mind—in another sense of the word—for certainly you have never dared to insult me publicly before. Your alleged loss of memory is all poppy-cock, of course. It may take time to discover what your new game is, but I shall do it. Meantime, you will take my orders as before, if you know what is good for you!”

Don Winslow permitted a lazy smile to grow at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh—ah—of course, Cho-San!” he murmured, covering a yawn. “And really, it doesn’t make much difference whether you believe my memory’s gone or not, so long as I know it has. But let’s stop talking about orders and insults and call Maurice back. Lotus will be much more interested in a lobster a la Newburg I am certain.”

Cho-San agreed with a surly grunt, and the three orders were taken. During the meal “Count Borg” told the story he had rehearsed about his capture and subsequent escape from Haiti in Michael Splendor’s plane. He made it brief but convincing, even naming the spot where he had abandoned the plane sixteen hours before.

As he talked he was aware that both the girl and her grim-faced guardian were studying him closely. What thoughts were passing through their minds, he scarcely dared to guess. Certainly Cho-San’s moonlike pokerface betrayed even less than his grunted comments. Lotus, for some reason, appeared too upset for speech.

Don was glad when the uncomfortable meal was over, and Cho-San made the first motion to leave.

“I am sorry to interrupt your evening tÊte-À-tÊte, my dear Count Borg,” the Oriental said with oily sarcasm, “but your presence is required at the comrades’ headquarters. Immediately, do you understand?”

With an indifferent smile, Don moved to pick up Lotus’ evening wrap.

“I told you my memory, not my understanding, had done a blackout, Cho-San,” he drawled. “Lead the way, old dear, and I’ll follow. Only first, I’ll send upstairs for my medicine.... Er—Maurice! Will you phone up for my valet to bring it down now with my hat and topcoat?”

“Medicine! Valet!” snarled the big Chinese, glaring furiously at Don. “What new stall is this, Borg? I tell you, I’m in no mood for trifling tonight! A man in your youth and health needing medicine—bah! And who is this manservant you’ve picked up? Haven’t I warned you....”

“It’s my wound, you know,” cut in the pseudo count. “Ever since that bullet nicked me, I’ve had the most frightful headaches. Actually blind me at times! So this morning I asked a druggist chap for something, and he prescribed....”

“To the devil with your druggist—and with you, too, Borg!” spat the Scorpion leader. “You may think you’re funny, but I do not. Lotus! Bring this fool out to the door in three minutes, or it will be the worse for you both. I’ll wait for you just that long!”

Turning on his heel, the bulky Oriental stalked out of the alcove. Following slowly with Lotus, Don saw Cho-San halt and stare at the figure of “Penny” who had just appeared in the lobby. Evidently Red had made record time for a valet, after getting the head-waiter’s phone call.

With a murmured excuse to Lotus, Don stepped forward to meet his manservant at a point just out of earshot.

“Listen, Red!” he whispered, taking the small bottle Pennington had brought. “I’m going for a ride with Cho-San and the Lotus in about two minutes. Follow us in another car, but watch your step. That’s all for now!”

Slipping into his topcoat, he sauntered back to the girl.

“Come, little Lotus!” he said banteringly. “We musn’t keep your guardian waiting. It’s bad for the jolly old dragon’s disposition. By the way, where are the comrades’ headquarters he spoke of. I suppose I must have been there countless times, but it’s all foggy in my head now.”

Sudden fear showed again in the look Lotus gave him.

“I—I wonder, AndrÉ,” she said in a strained tone, “if Cho-San may not be partly right about the change in you. It doesn’t seem possible you could have forgotten so many things! I wonder if you are not just playing a part, for some strange purpose of your own!”

There was no time for Don to think up a reply, as they were already passing through the outer door. Just across the sidewalk the huge figure of Cho-San bulked beside a waiting car.

Once inside the limousine, Don found himself in no mood for further self-explanations. More and more it was being impressed upon him that the job he had undertaken was beset with risks. So far he had been able to dodge open failure; but this fact failed to set his mind at ease.

Cho-San, and now Lotus herself, had made it plain that they suspected something wrong with him other than a loss of memory. They seemed to take it for granted that he was really Count AndrÉ Borg, yet they accused him of playing a part!

Don would have given his right hand now to know just what suspicions were seething in the minds of his two companions.

Another question popped up to startle him, as the big car rolled through San Francisco’s older, dimly lighted section.

Did the real Count Borg know the Chinese language?

As if in answer to his thought, Cho-San spoke suddenly in rapid, sing-song syllables.

“Kia hing—po pay-ow ni shi lee ting!”

Don’s scalp prickled as if a gun had been leveled at his head. Was this the showdown he asked himself?

“So-lay-ow!” came the chanted response from the driver’s seat.

Don’s lungs deflated in a sigh of relief. The Chinese syllables were not meant for him. He had the feeling of having stepped over another deadly trap.

“So Don Winslow is still in Haiti?” rumbled the Scorpion leader’s next words. “Did you learn, my dear Count, anything about his further plans while you were there? For instance, does he intend to return shortly to the United States?”

“I didn’t hear a thing about his intentions, Cho-San,” replied Don indifferently. “I fancy, though, that he’ll be in the plane Michael Splendor is flying here today. Splendor’s a bit sore, you know, about my stealing his big cabin job. He broadcast the news that he was flying here on a hunch that I’d head for 'Frisco. Maybe his pilot will be this Winslow chap.”

“Ummmm, I wonder!” mumbled the Oriental. “They say he looks enough like you, Borg, to be your twin. In a certain situation you might even impersonate him. Suppose, for instance, that Winslow should disappear without his friends being the wiser—just what would prevent your taking his place in the interests of Scorpia?”

Don’s answer was a laugh that he tried to make natural.

“Why, my dear Cho-San,” he retorted, “the interests of Scorpia would prevent my doing that to take the words out of your mouth! I admit I look like Winslow, but his voice, his walk, and everything else about him is different; so don’t talk nonsense!”

“Cho-San never talks nonsense, you fool!” hissed the Chinese. “You will do well to remember that your life depends on your usefulness to Scorpia, and to me—its mouthpiece! If you don’t, the next time a bullet strikes your skull it may be better aimed!”