er a fair blue sky. Great
blue hills confined the swollen current. This was not the Yangtze of
yesterday. It was a maddened millrace, gorged by the mountain rains.
Even the gurgle under the sharp-cut waters seemed to convey a menace.

Dikes were broken down. The brown waters had flowed out to right and
left, forming quiet lakes where there had been fields of paddy and
wheat. The junks from up-river were having a strenuous time of it.
Swarms of gibbering coolies manned the long sweeps, striving above all
to keep their clumsy craft in safe mid-current.

They were passing a long row of pyramids, green, brown and red. But
Miss Vost was staring along the deck.

"The Mongolian!" she muttered. "How he is grinning at you!"

The Mongolian had come upon them, apparently unintentionally. He
hesitated and paused when Peter looked up. Peter saw no grin upon his
lips. They were set in a firm, straight line. His long arms were
folded behind his back, and his eyes were empty of mirth--or malice.
They simply expressed nothing. He looked at Peter shortly, and favored
Miss Vost with a long stare.

Her eyes faltered. Peter stepped forward.

But the Mongolian bowed, passed them at a slow, meditative walk, and
was lost from their sight behind the cabin's port side.

The idea took hold of Peter that the stalker had become the killer.
There was a telegraph station at Ichang through which ran the frail
copper wires connecting the seventy millions of Szechwan Province with
civilization. Had it been possible for the Mongolian to signal his
master in Len Yang and receive an answer while the _Hankow_ lay at
Ichang?

After dinner, curious and nervous, Peter went below. The light was
burning over the table of weapons in the main cabin.

The Mongolian's door was slightly ajar, and as Peter descended the
stairs, the door closed.

He waited. His heart thumped, louder than the thump of the laboring
engine. He walked to his stateroom, opened the door, kicked the
threshold, and--slammed the door! He hastened to the table, and hid
behind it. Between the table legs he had a splendid view of both doors.

Holding a kris, point down, in front of him, the Mongolian slipped out,
tried the adjacent door-knob and entered Peter's room. When he came
out, he looked perplexed and angry. He slid the dagger into his silk
blouse and looked up the stairway, listening.

His expression of rage passed away; now his look was inscrutable.
Ste