“Yes, it is you who will at last give her soul and her beautiful body to me,” he repeated.  “Come.  I will show you how—­and why!”

He glided toward the dais.  His hand touched a panel.  It opened and in the opening he turned about and waited for Keith.

“Come!” he said.

Keith, drawing a deep breath, his soul ready for the shock, his body ready for action, followed him.

XXII

Into a narrow corridor, through a second door that seemed made of padded wool, and then into a dimly lighted room John Keith followed Kao, the Chinaman.  Out of this room there was no other exit; it was almost square, its ceiling was low, its walls darkly somber, and that life was there Keith knew by the heaviness of cigarette smoke in the air.  For a moment his eyes did not discern the physical evidence of that life.  And then, staring at him out of the yellow glow, he saw a face.  It was a haunting, terrible face, a face heavy and deeply lined by sagging flesh and with eyes sunken and staring.  They were more than staring.  They greeted Keith like living coals.  Under the face was a human form, a big, fat, sagging form that leaned outward from its seat in a chair.

Kao, bowing, sweeping his flowing raiment with his arms, said, “John Keith, allow me to introduce you to Peter Kirkstone.”

For the first time amazement, shock, came to Keith’s lips in an audible cry.  He advanced a step.  Yes, in that pitiable wreck of a man he recognized Peter Kirkstone, the fat creature who had stood under the picture of the Madonna that fateful night, Miriam Kirkstone’s brother!

And as he stood, speechless, Kao said:  “Peter Kirkstone, you know why I have brought this man to you tonight.  You know that he is not Derwent Conniston.  You know that he is John Keith, the murderer of your father.  Is it not so?”

The thick lips moved.  The voice was husky—­“Yes.”

“He does not believe.  So I have brought him that he may listen to you.  Peter Kirkstone, is it your desire that your sister, Miriam, give herself to me, Prince Kao, tonight?”

Again the thick lips moved.  This time Keith saw the effort.  He shuddered.  He knew these questions and answers had been prepared.  A doomed man was speaking.

And the voice came, choking, “Yes.”

“Why?”

The terrible face of Peter Kirkstone seemed to contort.  He looked at Kao.  And Kao’s eyes were shining in that dull room like the eyes of a snake.

“Because—­it will save my life.”

“And why will it save your life?”

Again that pause, again the sickly, choking effort.  “Because—­I have killed A man.”

Bowing, smiling, rustling, Kao turned to the door.  “That is all, Peter
Kirkstone.  Good night.  John Keith, will you follow me?”

Dumbly Keith followed through the dark corridor, into the big room mellow with candle-glow, back to the table with its mocking tea-urn and chinaware.  He felt a thing like clammy sweat on his back.  He sat down.  And Kao sat opposite him again.