Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927

J. D. turned the torch upward and it caught the flash of letters of gold: together he and Joan read the message and the curse.

I

They stood where the Arches of Sorrow cast their shade, looking out across the sunlit plain toward the hills. The air shimmered in the noonday heat, and the gray piles of stone found shapes other than those with which the patient masons had endowed them.

Here and there a coolie plodded slowly cityward, laden bamboo pole on shoulder; to the west a string of camels went nodding along the unseen road, knee-deep in dust. But for these, and the tombs sprawled in the sunshine, Stewart and the girl were alone. Few came to the Plain of the Dead, and none lingered on it.

“May as well go on!” J. D. said.

They went on, their shadows dancing at their feet, toward the last resting place of the Lis. Joan was quiet, nervous, pale. J. D., a little anxious, watched her closely without appearing to watch her at all.

He thought the strain of the quest had been almost too much for her, and that the prospect of its ending had weakened her resistance. Added to this was the fear that she had searched in vain, that Li Hung Chang was really dead, and her sister with him. J. D. himself was afraid they would find it so.

“Not much to see, is there, Joan?”

“We’ll have to find the way in.”

They found the entrance to the tombs at the bottom of a short flight of steps, guarded by twin open-mouthed dragons to scare away evil spirits, roofed with a great block of stone that held a statue of Buddha.

But the entrance was sealed, impassable. It was closed by a door of bronze on massive hinges, inscribed with characters neither of them could decipher. Nothing less than a charge of dynamite would move it by force, and they saw no other way of moving it.

“Unless,” J. D. suggested, “that statue has anything to do with it.”

“Try,” Joan said, rather listlessly.

He jumped, gripped the edge of the stone, pulled himself up beside the Buddha. “What d’you suggest, Joan?”

“Oh, anything. Twist its head.”

J. D. took the great head between his hands, exerted a steady pressure. He felt it give, and with a hollow clang the door below swung open.

“That was a good guess,” he said lightly. Dropping down, he took Joan’s arm, and together they faced the gloom beyond the door.

“It’s so dark,” Joan said, hesitating. Her experience in the underground chamber in Shanghai had made her nervous where darkness was concerned.

“I brought a torch,” J. D. said. “Tombs are dark places.” He played the light on the stone floor, and they went forward slowly. The door clanged shut behind them.

“Should have thought of propping it open,” J. D. said lightly, feeling the girl start. “But there’s sure to be some way of getting out, so don’t worry.” He rapped with one heel on the stone, and a hollow boom answered him. “It was walking on this that did it. Anyway, we’ll see what’s to be seen. You’re not afraid?”

Her face was dim in shadow, but he saw her smile with some of the old joyous recklessness. “No. Or only that we’ve followed a false trail.”

They went forward some distance between the sculptured walls, into a hall where the gods of Old China sat staring calmly at things unseen by mortal eyes. Dust on the floor softened their footsteps; almost unconsciously, they spoke in whispers, reluctant to break the silence of the dead. For the dead of a score of centuries were about them, the dead of the family of Li.

Old men and women, maidens and boys and babies, they seemed to watch these two intruders and wonder what brought them here. They were neither friendly nor hostile, but serene. So Joan whispered, glancing about her as the white beam of the torch crept here and there among the coffins in their stone niches.

“We have to find Li Tzu,” J. D. said softly. He bent a little to peer at a coffin. “They’re all named, you see. And he’ll be among the latest left down here, if not the latest.”

They found the coffin of Li Tzu at the feet of a god in the far shadows of the hall. They read his name in golden lettering on the inlaid aromatic wood, and knew that here lay the last key of the six that opened the door to the treasure of the Soapstone Buddhas. Yet they hesitated a moment before using it. Then the girl touched J. D.’s wrist.

“You remember the message?”

“ ‘Look where Li Tzu, my father, looks. Read and obey,’ ” J. D. said thoughtfully. “Judging by the position of the coffin, he’s looking at the ceiling, isn’t he?” He flashed the white beam of the torch upward, played it on the arched stone twenty or more feet above the coffin. They caught the flash of letters of gold, and he steadied his hand. Together they read the message and the curse.

“ ‘These are the words of Li Hung Chang, spoken before the spirits of his ancestors. If there is evil in your heart, turn away before you do greater evil, and are cursed. If there is good, open the coffin beneath, fearing nothing, and follow the road to which it is the gate.

“ ‘If there is evil, and you follow the road, may you, and your sons, and your sons’ sons, be cursed for ten thousand generations. May your wives and your daughters know shame, and your spirit and the spirits of your descendants be forever prey to the Spirits of the Lower Kingdom.

“ ‘May your name be a spitting and an execration throughout all China, and the names of your ancestors. These are the words of Li Hung Chang. Read and obey.’ ”

For some time J. D. and the girl were silent, while still the light of the torch played on the golden lettering, and the words of Li Hung Chang gleamed down at them from the cold gray stone, like bars of sunshine on a storm-dark sea.

It seemed that the quiet dead watched them as they stood there in the back-flung shadow of the torch and the hand that held it, and wondered about them, crowding nearer in the gloom.

“It seems peculiar,” J. D. said at length. “I mean, the Chinese are so reverent about their dead.”

“It’s horrible,” Joan said. Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Let’s go out, Dave, please. If Elaine is here, she’s dead. In a way, I hope she is dead, though that may seem strange.

“It’s so dark in here, so cold! I think these old dead people are all laughing at us, and joking among themselves. Can’t you hear them whispering, whispering—” She ended shakily, staring with wide eyes of horror into the shadows.

J. D. slipped an arm about her waist. “H’sh!” he said soothingly. “Keep a grip on your nerves, Joan.” He pressed her close to him, and felt her yield much as a child might, fearful of the dark. “Remember I’m with you.”

She laughed, a little unsteadily. “I’m sorry. I’ll try, to be brave.”

“Of course, I’ll bring you out if you really want to go, and if we can get out.”

“No, I’m all right now. Open the coffin.”

He hesitated. “You’re sure you’re not afraid?”

“We have no evil in our hearts,” she said gravely. She glanced about her into the darkness that concealed the coffins. “I think they know, too.”

J. D. nodded, bent over the coffin of Li Tzu, lifted the lid. It lifted easily, on smooth hinges. The girl uttered a little startled cry. The coffin was empty. More, it had no bottom but a flight of steps that ran downward from it into darkness. An odor of dampness came to them, and a cold breath like clammy fingers upon their cheeks.

“So this is the road we have to follow,” J. D. said. “Feel ready for it, Joan?”

“Yes,” she answered, a note of returned courage in her voice.

II

Side by side they stepped into the coffin and went slowly down, the light of the torch guiding their feet Above them, the lid thudded into place, bringing to birth queer echoes to play about in spaces unseen, unguessed, to die reluctantly to silence.

There were few more than a dozen steps, ending in a passage with a floor of clay and walls and a roof of unhewn stone. The walls oozed moisture, and the roof; and here and there the light of the torch shone redly back at them from puddles on the floor.

The air was stale and heavy as the air of an underwater cavern, and seemed to press close about them, chokingly. The mud of the floor clung to their feet, and in places J. D. splashed through inches of water with Joan in his arms.

Once a rat crossed their path, scrambling up the rough wall to vanish in a gap between two stones; and once a toad with ruby-red eyes stared down at them from a high crevice, heavy-lidded and placid, undisturbed alike by their coming and their going.

But for these they saw no living thing, but pressed on in a lifeless quiet with only the sound of their own footfalls and their voices to break this silence that seemed of centuries.

“You’re not tired, Joan?”

“No; but we’ve gone an awful distance, haven’t we?”

“About a mile, I think,” J. D. said. “Though it’s hard to judge. If you’re tired, we’ll rest a bit.”

She shook her head. “It’s too wet, and messy, and generally unpleasant. I’d like to get out into the sunshine again as quickly as possible.”

They plodded on, careless now of the state of the shoes, walking through puddles and over dry ground alike. The tunnel was far from straight, and its floor far from level; it had been constructed in a haphazard manner, and here and there the stones bulged in the walls, admitting little drifts of clay to form low mounds reaching half across its width.

In places, too, the root of a bush or tree showed starkly, thrust from the soil between the stones, proving the tunnel ran not far below the surface of the ground. So they went on until J. D. noticed how the girl’s steps lagged, and felt the increasing weight of her hand upon his arm.

“Tired, Joan?”

Smiling, she confessed it. “Just a little.”

“Let me carry you a bit?”

“I’m not so tired as all that, thanks,” she said shyly.

“Pooh, pooh!” J. D. said, and caught her up before she guessed his intention. Then she laughed, and put one arm about his shoulders. She knew his strength, and knew he could carry her an hour before draining it more than a trifle. And she was wearier than she had admitted.

She had slept little on the journey from Shanghai, and still less the previous night. Back in Singapore and Mandalay the quest had been a joyous adventure; but now, with the end almost in sight, the threat of failure shadowed her with the fear that everything had been in vain.

But no — not everything. She had made the acquaintance of the man in whose arms she now lay so contentedly, and that counted more than she would have liked to confess to any but J. D. himself, and not even to him until he had made some confessions of his own.

He did not carry her far. The passage ended abruptly in a flight of steps similar to that they had descended, but headed with a door. He set her on her feet, whispered. “S’sh!” and went silently up the steps. A few moments he listened, his ear close to the metal-ribbed wood, then beckoned her. “Doesn’t seem to be anything doing, Joan. We’ll see if we can get through, eh?”

She nodded, and with cautious fingers he tried the door. It opened readily. Beyond it they saw a glimmer of light about the edges of a fold of heavy curtain. They passed through quietly, and the door swung shut behind them.

“I wonder—” J. D. whispered, stretching out one hand.

The curtain stirred as he touched it. It was wrenched away, and they saw the room, and the swordsman crouching there, one hand out to toss aside their cover, the other back and up, tensed with the weight of the curved blade.

J. D. dived for his legs, brought him crashing down. The sword described a glittering arc, fell point-first, and stood quivering in the floor.

The two men rolled and tumbled about it until J. D. dragged his pistol out and struck twice with the heavy barrel. He rose to his feet, alert, listening. There was no sound to indicate that the noise of the struggle had been overheard. Relaxing, he turned to the girl.

“Better be ready for anything, Joan.”

“I am,” she said, tapping the little pistol in her hand. The sparkle had come back into her eyes, and the color to her cheeks, with the imminence of danger. She looked down at the unconscious man. “What about tying him?”

“Hardly necessary,” J. D. said. “If there’s going to be trouble, we’ll have met it long before he comes to.”

They glanced about the room. It was small, barely furnished. Joan walked softly across to the window, and looked out on a corner of a garden within high walls. Beyond it, distant now, was the Plain of the Dead.

“We’re somewhere in the foothills, Dave.”

“I guessed it,” J. D. nodded, joining her. “A pretty big house, too, judging by the garden. But hadn’t we better see what’s to be seen?”

They crossed to the one door of the room other than that by which they had entered, and stood at it a moment, listening. No sound came from beyond, and, very cautiously, J. D. pushed it open.

They looked into a larger and more luxurious room. It was unoccupied. They went through it slowly, and again halted at a door to listen, their breaths stilled, their eyes intent. And as they stood, from somewhere beyond the door came a girl’s quick laugh.

“Dave, Dave!” Joan whispered. “See if that’s — Elaine. Please! I’m afraid.”

“Stay where you are, then,” J. D. said. “Shoot if anything happens, and I’ll be back in two seconds.” He pushed at the door, felt it yield, and slipped through.

III

The room in which he found himself was more beautiful than any other he had ever seen. There were treasures on its walls that American and European collectors would have given their fortunes to possess.

There were rugs on the floor worth a king’s ransom, miracles in color and sheer loveliness of conception. There were vases filled with flowers, themselves more graceful than the flowers.

There were carvings of ivory and jade, and landscape paintings by China’s Old Masters. Yet the room was not crowded. Each object stood alone, with plenty of space about it, to be judged by its own merit.

J. D. saw all this with a quick glance, then concentrated on the loveliest thing in the room.

She played with a dog little larger than her closed hand, a dog with long hair and eyes like black diamonds. It rushed at her across the carpet, and with quick movements she evaded it, or lifted it up and held it at arm’s length, or rolled it over and over gently.

Her garb was the jacket and trousers of heavy silk worn by Chinese ladies; but her hair was the purest gold, and her eyes were blue, and her cheeks had the delicate flush of roses in them. J. D. knew he had found Elaine Manville.

The old man who sat watching the girl at play was a Chinese of the Chinese. His head was covered with a skullcap scrolled in silver thread. The nails of his little fingers were sheathed in silver. His hands were long and fine, the hands of a man, but graceful as the hands of a woman.

A mustache drooped limply from the corners of his mouth, touching the breast of his silken jacket. His face in repose was calm almost to severity, wonderfully lighted by a quick fleeting smile as he watched the laughing girl.

It was the face of a man of integrity and honor, and of strength of character, second to none. It was the face of a man born to lead others, whether or not to his own good. The face of one who follows his destiny, careless of what may lie in his path.

J. D. stood there a moment unobserved, so quiet had been his entry. Then the girl saw him, and rose from her knees, putting out one hand toward the old man. The old man started, and would have struck a gong that stood beside him; but J. D. swung his pistol up.

“Quiet, Li Hung Chang!”

Li Hung Chang took the girl’s hand, caressed it reassuringly. “Who are you?”

“One who has followed the trail of the Soapstone Buddhas,” J. D. said.

No trace of emotion showed on the old man’s face. It seemed as if the treasure he had hidden was no more to him than to the tiny dog which sniffed about his feet.

“What do you seek?”

“Nothing your treasure could give me,” J. D. said smiling. “But I come with one from whom you stole a treasure greater than the treasure you took from the Peking Court.”

“What is this treasure?”

“She stands beside you, Li Hung Chang.”

Li Hung Chang nodded slowly. J. D. slipped the pistol into his belt; it was needed no more.

“So it has come,” said Li Hung Chang. “The time of parting I have feared so much has come. Day by day and year by year I have watched her grow and gather loveliness, and day by day and year by year I have told myself she should be with her people, living as they live, seeing China as they see China, seeing us as they see us.

“Often I have had the message ready; but always I have told myself that she was young, and that another day would be but a day, and a week a week. So from a little thing that crawled about the floor she has grown to be as you see her now, and still she stayed with me.”

J. D. nodded. “But the other has more claim.” He tapped on the door behind him, and opened it for Joan. She stood an instant hesitant, then slowly passed him, and halted again.

“Elaine!”

The girl stood silent, but a little pale, one hand at her breast, her eyes wide.

“Elaine, don’t you know me?” Joan pleaded.

“I do,” said the girl, very softly, in perfect English. “I remember you, a little.” Walking forward, she held up her face to Joan, who took her in her arms and kissed her. “But it’s so long ago—”

She began to cry, her face against Joan’s shoulder. J. D. stood in embarrassed silence, but Li Hung Chang watched with a smile half wistful, half pleased. While still the two girls whispered together, he turned to J. D.

“The guard at the door attacked you? You did not kill him?”

“No.”

“I am glad. He is faithful, and the sight of a white man must have surprised him. He has watched for fifteen years, and you are the first to come. One of our people he would have brought to me. So Sin Tiel, S’hih Quen, and the others, are dead?”

J. D. nodded.

“If you would tell me—” Li Hung Chang began.

A white man, pistol in hand, stood in the doorway.

“Keep your hands still,” he said easily to J. D., “until we get to know each other. I suppose you’re Stewart?”

“I am,” J. D. said, waiting.

“That’s all right, then.” The stranger slipped the gun back into his pocket. “Joan here will introduce us.”

“Dave,” Joan said, “this is my brother Jim.”

They shook hands. Jim Manville turned to Li Hung Chang.

“Li Hunch Chang, do you remember me?”

“You are as your father was thirty years ago,” Li Hung Chang said slowly. “It might be he who stands where you stand now.” He moved one hand. “Be seated.”

“First,” Joan said, “won’t you say hello to your little sister, Jim?”

Laughing, embarrassed, he picked Elaine up in his arms, kissed her, and sat down with her on his knee. “Such a thing to go twenty thousand miles to find!”

“To begin at the beginning,” Li Hung Chang said in his precise English, “sixteen years ago, at the outbreak of anti-foreign feeling, I advised your father to stay in my house in Peking. But he preferred to leave the capital, and make for the white settlements either in Shanghai or Tientsin as opportunity came.

“Tientsin being the nearer, and the foreign naval forces being concentrated there, the road thither was watched, and he decided in favor of Shanghai. On the way, your mother was murdered by brigands, and the baby stolen and held, presumably with ideas of ransom.

“Your father, helpless with the country as it was then, sent a message to me, and I dispatched spies who succeeded in locating and rescuing the baby. But it was then too late to send her to your father, who had successfully reached Shanghai, so I kept her, contenting myself with assuring him of her safety, and intending to return her when opportunity arose.

“I saw the allied forces advance on Peking, halt, and retreat. I saw the bloody encounter in Tientsin, and the second and triumphal advance of the white armies. I had known it would eventually be so, and had prepared. Force can accomplish little, and what it does accomplish is but transient.

“I knew that for awhile the West would rule the East, until the East had learned to rule itself. I knew, too, that when the East awoke she would need riches.

“So I took the greater portion of the treasures of the Summer Palace, and hid it away, and had the news spread that I was dead. And for sixteen years I have stayed here, within sight of the city where I served the empress, without discovery.

“The allied army was close on Peking when by stealth I left the city, and, knowing what would follow, I was afraid to leave the child. It was not until afterward that I learned your father had come with the army from Tientsin, and had shortly died.

“Pursuing inquiries necessarily cautious, I found that you were being cared for by relatives in Shanghai, and that the baby was believed dead. It was then that temptation came to me to keep her awhile, for I had grown to love her.

“So year after year she stayed with me, and I taught her what I thought would be of value to her, and kept before her mind the fact that she was white. When she was old enough, I told her of her parents, and why she was here with me, and she agreed to stay yet a little longer. She has seemed content enough, and even happy.” He turned to Elaine. “Is it not so?”

She nodded, but her glance was on her brother. “I was wonderfully happy, always.”

“I had meant to send her to you when she was of an age to marry,” Li Hung Chang continued; “but you have come to take her first. Perhaps that is as well, for in my old age and selfishness I might have kept her by me until the springs of love had died in her breast, and her face had lost its beauty.”

Joan nodded. She had intended, a little, to reprove him; but in face of what he had said she could not find the words.

IV

“Jim and I decided there was a chance I of her being alive,” she said, “because of the rumors of the treasure you had hidden, and because there was no definite proof that you were dead. For a long time we meant to search, but could find no starting point, and no clew, however small.

“Then Jim was given a post in the Diplomatic Service, and after a few years our chance came. The government had discovered one of the holders of the Soapstone Buddhas, and wanted a man to follow up the clews.

“They thought a white man would have more chance, and Jim was given the job, but without official recognition. He was to work as he pleased, and if he got into trouble was in no way to demand or expect help.

“The government just then was in great need of funds, and wanted the treasure badly. The Boy Emperor was far from secure on his throne, and all China was seething with unrest.

“Jim talked it over with me, and I told him I was going to take a hand in it. He didn’t like that, but I wouldn’t listen to his reasons why I should stay at home out of danger, and in the end we agreed to work together.

“We were to keep in constant touch with one another, and exchange any information gained. But” — she smiled at J. D. — “in no way was one to even so much as hint at the existence of the other, so that if one went under the other could go on. Then Jim set out to look for Sin Tiel.

“But Sin Tiel had been warned, and had left Peking. We trailed him first to Shanghai, and then to Canton; and there he joined a ship, the Gay Girl, as a hand, paying a little money for the privilege.

“Jim, who is a miracle at disguises, made himself into a coolie, and did the same. In the meantime I took another boat for Manila, where the brig was bound first.

“Sin Tiel, apparently thinking he’d shaken off pursuit, wasn’t careful enough aboard the brig, and T’i somehow learned he had the Buddha. T’i was one of the three ruffians who owned the brig. The others were Dutch Sammy and da Costa.

“They knew that if he suspected their knowledge he’d fling the Buddha overboard, so they plotted to get him ashore on some lonely island and murder him. They agreed on Ituri, and headed for it on the pretense of needing water.

“But Sin Tiel suspected them, and swam ashore at night, and when they murdered him next day he’d got rid of the Buddha.

“Jim thought T’i and the others had the Buddha, and stayed on the brig. But after awhile he concluded they hadn’t it, and decided to leave as soon as he got in touch with me at Singapore.

“Meanwhile, I was in Singapore, and heard rumors of a castaway who’d been picked up on Ituri. I’d talked with Jim in Sydney, and learned of Sin Tiel landing on Ituri, so now I thought this man might know something about the Buddha.

“I made inquiries, and found he was one J. D. Stewart. I went to the hotel he was staying at, and watched him; but he didn’t seem suspicious.

“Then the Gay Girl came along, and I talked it over with Jim, and while he decided to stay on the brig because T’i and the others were also interested in J. D. Stewart, I was to search Mr. Stewart’s room in the hotel and see if I could find anything. Besides that, I was to warn T’i to keep off the trail.

“I was searching Mr. Stewart’s room when he came in, and he gave me the Buddha when I asked him for it. I told Jim the message, and made for Mandalay. But T’i and the others had shadowed me, and they made for Mandalay as well.

“Jim went ashore after them to warn me, but got mixed up in a street fight and was in jail for the night. Mr. Stewart appeared again in time to rescue me from the brig, but not before T’i had learned the second message.

“Jim was with T’i and Dutch Sammy and da Costa on their rush to Pei-Chut, when they tried to ambush Mr. Stewart. After that, he stayed with them because they were going on to Canton, and he thought that the best way of watching them.

“At Canton, they captured me again, and he rescued me, and because he was angry set the brig afire, thinking that would put an end to their activities.

“But it didn’t, and we followed T’i and Dutch Sammy to Shanghai, where we separated. Jim was still thinking out his plan when Mr. Stewart and I got the Buddha, so I sent him the message, knowing he’d follow on. And that’s how we found you, Li Hung Chang.”

“And you?” Li Hung Chang said to Jim. “Which treasure have you come to seek?”

“The one I have on my knee. No other. I’ll bring it home with me and show it the western world.”

Li Hung Chang sighed. “And you, Mr. Stewart?”

J. D. looked at Joan, who looked at the floor.

“If you would see the other treasure, then—”

He rose, crossed to one wall, pressed on a panel that seemed no different from the others. A section of the wood swung back, leaving a narrow door through which the bright sunshine streamed to a floor of solid stone.

They followed eagerly in single file, from the sunshine into gathering shadows, until J. D. used his torch. Li Hung Chang came to a second door, opening it in the same manner. From a shelf beside it he took a silver lamp, and touched a match to the wick. With this in hand, he went on into the room that held the treasure of the Soapstone Buddhas.

It stood about them in the red light of the lamp, like a scene from the “Thousand and One Nights.” There were statues of gold and ivory and silver, and chests of scented wood containing precious stones, and robes stiff with jewels.

They caught the cold flare of diamonds, the sheen of pearls, the hot blaze of rubies. They saw swords that had never been meant to know blood, and couches of silver on golden dragons.

Everything had been chosen for its value, and the equal of few of the treasures there could be found through all the world. The Summer Palace had been ransacked to fill this single room, and the result, seen thus for the first time, was bewildering.

“For this,” Li Hung Chang said sadly, “my friends have died; for this, the enemies of China have killed. For this is for China, and the man who tries to steal it is an enemy of China.”

A soft laugh answered him. They turned quickly, and saw T’i in the shadows of the doorway, a revolver in one hand.

“The first to move without my word dies. Keep your hands still, white man.” The revolver swung an inch so as to cover J. D. “Take out your weapon slowly, and drop it. Slowly, slowly! Now, you.” He menaced Joan. “And you.” Jim’s gun clattered to the floor. “So!”

“Rash man,” Li Hung Chang cried warningly, “would you betray your country and your gods? Did you not read the curse that rests on him who steals these riches? Beware!”

“Curses?” T’i said. “What are curses to me?”

“Then meet your fate,” Li Hung Chang said, and dropped the lamp.

T’i fired twice, the red stabs of flame lighting for an instant the shadows. Then came a crash as if the roof had fallen, yet strangely softened and subdued. The room shook, and little treasures tumbled to the floor. And then came silence, until J. D. spoke:

“I think he’s gone.”

“He is,” said the voice of Li Hung Chang. “I felt his spirit pass.”

The white beam of J. D.’s torch cut through the darkness, flooding the spot where T’i had stood. But T’i stood there no longer. In his place a statue of Buddha, taller than a man, sheathed in gold, lay on its side, fallen from the base on which it had rested sixteen long years.

Beneath it was shadow, and from the shadow came only something brown and sluggish that crept across the floor, and formed in little pools that caught the light dimly.

A short time before J. D. and Joan were married, a parcel came to them. It was short and square and heavy, and they wondered what it contained.

“More salt-cellars,” J. D. said. “People who give wedding presents display a lamentable lack of originality.”

“Half a dozen volumes of poetry,” said Jim.

“A set of glass doorknobs,” said Joan.

“A decanter,” said Elaine.

They opened the box, and found it packed with silk, in the middle of which was something hard. Carefully, Joan removed the silk, fold by fold. A golden Buddha a few inches high beamed up at them.

“From Li Hung Chang,” J. D. said, “Like it, Joan?”

“Love it,” Joan said softly.

“There’s writing on it,” said Elaine.

Joan held it to the light, read aloud the tiny Chinese characters.

“ ‘The end of the trail.’ ”