"
In a few moments, led by the sergeant, the party came dropping
heavily through the skylight into the treasure-house of Huang
Chow, in which every lamp was now alight. A trap was open near
the foot of the stairs, and from beneath it muffled cries
proceeded. In this direction the sergeant headed. Craning over
the trap:
"Hallo, Mr. Durham!" he called. "Mr. Durham!"
"Get a rope and a ladder," came a faint cry from below. "I can
just touch bottom with my feet and keep my head above water, but
the tide's coming in. Look to the girl, though, first. Look to
the girl!"
The sergeant turned to where, stretched upon a tiger skin before
a half-open door, Lala Huang lay, scantily clothed and white as
death.
Upon one of her bare ankles was a discoloured mark.
As the sergeant and another of the men stooped over her a moaning
sound drew their attention to the stair, and there, bent and
tottering slowly down, was old Huang Chow, his eyes peering
through the owl-like glasses vacantly across the room to where
his daughter lay.
"My God!" whispered the sergeant, upon one knee beside her. He
looked blankly into the face of the other man. "She's dead!"
Two plain-clothes men were busy knotting together tapestries and
pieces of rare stuff with which to draw Durham out of the pit;
but at these old Huang Chow looked not at all, but gropingly
crossed the room, as if he saw imperfectly, or could not believe
what he saw.
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