mg.greeneyes-第2部分

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　　The　conductor　did　not　realize　this。　He　searched　for　the　rest　of　the　blotter；　in　vain。
　　〃Go　up　ahead；〃　he　said　to　the　brakeman；　〃and　bring　back　the　porter　from　the　club　car。　Maybe　he'll　know　something。　This　looks　like　one　of　the　line's　blotters。〃
　　The　porter；　brought　in　by　the　brakeman；　eyed　the　body　cautiously。
　　〃Yes；　suh；〃　he　said。　〃That's　the　one；　suh。　He　give　me　a　letter；　suh；　jus'
　　a　li'l　while　ago。　I　got　it　heah；　Misteh　Conductuh；　right　heah　in　the　mail　foh　Truckee。〃
　　While　he　spoke；　he　had　been　searching　through　the　mail　for　Truckee。　There　was　no　envelope　with　Stephen　Laird's　name　on　the　corner。
　　Meanwhile　the　observation…car　porter　and　the　brakeman　had　been　having　trouble　keeping　curious　passengers　out　of　the　car。　The　brakeman　called　to　the　conductor。
　　〃Here's　a　gentleman　who　says　he's　from　the　newspapers；　conductor。　Shall　I　let　him　in？〃
　　The　conductor　nodded　his　assent。　A　man　bustled　forward；　dressed；　like　the　doctor；　in　pajamas　and　trousers。　He　showed　the　conductor　his　credentials。　He　was　a　correspondent　from　one　of　the　newspaper　syndicates；　returning　from　a　Western　story。
　　The　conductor　told　this　man　what　he　knew　about　the　murder。　The　latter's　eyes　glistened。　This　was　a　fine　story。　〃Murder　on　the　Mountain　Limited。〃　He　could　already　see　the　headlines。
　　He　made　a　special　note　of　the　mysterious　last　words　of　Stephen　Laird。
　　〃Laird　said　something；　too；　about　eyes；〃　remarked　the　conductor　thoughtfully。　〃Green　eyes；　as　I　remember　it。　But　that　was　when　I　first　got　there。　This　is　all　I　have　written　down：　'In　the　box；'　and　then　'see；'　and　then　this　about　'Tag　A；'　that　he　tried　to　spell。〃
　　Up　ahead；　the　whistle　blasted　through　the　night。　The　train　was　ing　into　Truckee；　where　the　authorities　would　take　over　the　body　and　the　mystery。
　　The　little　group　of　men　around　the　dead　man　dropped　into　silence。　The　correspondent　was　sitting　down　scribbling　off　a　telegram　to　file　at　the　station。
　　But　he　said　nothing　about　the　red　mark　on　Stephen　Laird's　forehead；　because　no　one　had　thought　to　mention　it。
　　That　mark　was　scarcely　noticeable　now。　It　was　nothing　more　than　a　faint　blur。
　　Living；　the　red　mark　on　Laird's　forehead　had　impressed　three　men：　the　porter；　the　conductor；　and　the　brakeman。
　　Now　that　Laird　was　dead；　the　mark　was　dying；　too；　as　though　it　were　connected　with　his　soul；　rather　than　with　his　body。　In　the　excitement；　the　mark　was　forgotten。
　　The　porter　had　been　sent　back　to　his　car。　All　that　the　newspapers　and　the　authorities　were　told　was　that　a　man　had　been　found　stabbed　on　the　observation　platform；　a　fragment　of　blotter　had　been　found　beside　him；　he　had　uttered　certain　vague　words　and　letters　before　his　death；　and　a　letter　which　he　had　written　had　been　stolen。
　　But　of　all　the　details　marking　the　murder　of　Stephen　Laird；　that　vanished　crimson　mark　was　most　significant。　For　it　was　that　sign　that　brought　him　to　his　doom！
　　That　spot　that　shone　like　blood　was　the　mark　of　death！　Now；　death　had　struck；　and　its　mark…no　longer　needed…was　gone！
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　II　
　　　THE　FACE　FROM　THE　DARK　
　　SEVERAL　days　had　passed　since　the　strange　death　of　Stephen　Laird；　passenger　on　the　Mountain　Limited。　The　case　had　created　a　wide　sensation　at　first。　Now；　with　no　solution　toward　the　mystery；　it　had　dropped　into　prompt　oblivion。
　　It　was　evening；　in　San　Francisco。　A　tall；　well…dressed　man　entered　the　lobby　of　the　Aldebaran　Hotel；　carrying　a　light　suitcase。　He　stepped　up　to　the　desk　to　register。　The　clerk　noted　the　name　which　the　writer　fashioned　in　a　clear；　sweeping　hand。
　　The　new　guest's　name　was　Henry　Arnaud。
　　〃What　kind　of　a　room　would　you　like；　Mr。　Arnaud？〃　questioned　the　clerk。
　　〃I　should　prefer　one　on　the　top　floor；〃　was　the　reply。
　　The　clerk　looked　over　the　list　of　vacant　rooms。　The　Aldebaran　was　a　second…rate　hostelry；　and　was　never　filled　with　guests。　But　due　to　its　location　on　one　of　the　noisy　streets　that　angle　northward　from　Market；　the　rooms　on　the　upper　floors　were　always　occupied。　At　present；　there　was　just　one　vacancy　on　the　eighth　floor；　the　highest　story　in　the　house。　The　clerk　passed　it　by。
　　〃I　can　give　you　something　on　the　seventh…〃
　　〃No；〃　said　Arnaud；　shaking　his　head　emphatically。　〃I　want　to　be　as　high　up　as　possible。　If　I　can't　get　a　room　on　the　top　floor；　I　shall　go　somewhere　else。〃
　　〃Wait　a　moment！〃　The　clerk　pretended　to　make　a　sudden　discovery。　〃Here　you　are；　sir…Room　806。　A　very　nice　room；　Mr。　Arnaud。〃
　　The　guest　seemed　highly　pleased；　and　turned　his　bag　over　to　the　waiting　bell　boy。　The　clerk　called　out　the　number　of　the　room；　and　Henry　Arnaud　started　to　the　elevator。　The　clerk　shrugged　his　shoulders。
　　There　was　a　very　definite　reason　why　Room　806　was　vacant。　Until　a　few　nights　ago；　it　had　been　occupied　by　Stephen　Laird。　That　guest　had　left　the　Aldebaran　one　evening　to　take　the　Mountain　Limited　for　Chicago。
　　The　police　at　Truckee　had　discovered　an　envelope　in　Laird's　pocket；　marked　with　the　number　of　the　room　and　the　name　of　the　hotel　at　which　he　had　stopped　in　San　Francisco。
　　So；　on　the　following　morning；　the　police　of　the　coast　city　had　called　at　the　Aldebaran　to　search　the　room　for　clews　that　might　lead　to　a　solution　of　the　murder　of　Stephen　Laird。　The　room　had　been　bare　of　evidence；　and　the　clerk　had　been　instructed　to　keep　it　vacant　for　a　few　days。
　　There　was　no　ban　now；　but　806　was　not　to　be　offered　to　a　guest　without　good　excuse　for　so　doing。　The　excuse　had　worked　excellently　tonight。　Henry　Arnaud　had　insisted　upon　an　eighth…story　room；　he　had　received　the　only　one　available。
　　The　clerk's　eyes　scanned　the　lobby。　He　wanted　to　be　sure　that　the　issuing　of　Room　806　had　caused　no　ments。　Many　of　the　guests　at　the　Aldebaran　were　permanents　who　might　talk　about　the　fact　that　Laird　had　lived　there　almost　until　the　time　of　his　murder。
　　One　man　who　had　been　reading　a　newspaper　was　strolling　from　the　lobby；　no　others　showed　any　sign　of　activity。
　　
　　
　　MEANWHILE；　Henry　Arnaud　had　reached　Room　806。　The　room　occupied　a　corner　of　the　hotel。　One　window　opened　on　the　front　street；　the　other　covered　a　vacant　lot。
　　The　room　was　small。　It　had　no　bath。　A　large　wardrobe　stood　in　the　corner；　in　lieu　of　a　closet。　The　only　modern　touch　to　this　room　was　a　reading　lamp　on　a　small　table　beside　the　single　bed。
　　Yet　Arnaud　did　not　appear　dissatisfied　with　his　quarters。　He　tipped　the　bell　boy　and　carefully　locked　the　door　after　the　attendant　had　left　the　room。
　　He　seated　himself　in　a　chair　beside　the　bed。　He　took　an　old　newspaper　from　the　pocket　of　his　light　overcoat。
　　As　Arnaud　spread　the　paper；　his　eyes　rested　upon　a　paragraph　relating　to　the　death　of　Stephen　Laird。　It　was　an　exact　account　of　the　man's　demise；　and　gave　the　conductor's　version　of　everything　he　had　heard　the　dying　man　say。
　　What　was　the　meaning　of　the　statement；　〃Tag　A；〃　the　last　message　that　Laird　had　tried　to　give？　That　was　a　mystery。　The　newspaper　paragraph　also　stated　that　the　envelope　scrawled　with　806；　Aldebaran　Hotel；　had　been　found　in　the　dead　man's　pocket。
　　Henry　Arnaud　smiled　as　he　scanned　that　notice。　It　explained　his　presence　here　tonight。　He　had　chosen　this　room　by　design；　not　by　accident。
　　The　light　that　shone　upon　Henry　Arnaud's　face　revealed　a　countenance　that　was　both　distinctive　and　unusual。　Henry　Arnaud　was　possessed　of　firmly　molded　features　that　appeared　almost　as　if　they　had　been　chiseled　by　a　human　hand。
　　They　gave　a　quiet；　motionless　expression　to　his　countenance。
　　One　could　not　have　told　the　age　of　this　man。　Forty　years　might　have　been　a　fair　estimate；　but　its　accuracy　could　not　have　been　more　than　speculative。
　　He　was　a　being　with　a　human　mask；　whose　face　became　more　inscrutable　as　it　was　examined　closer。　In　the　proximity　of　the　light；　it　was　even　more　impressive　than　in　the　poorly　illuminated　lobby。　Arnaud's　eyes　were　an　amazing　factor。
　　They　sparkled　with　a　glow　that　boded　mystery。
　　Slowly；　Henry　Arnaud　raised　his　hand　and　extinguished　the　light　beside　the　bed。　The　room　was　now　in　total　darkness。　No　sign　existed　of　its　human　occupant。
　　Henry　Arnaud　had　not　stirred　from　his　chair。　But　now；　his　eyes　were　turned　toward　the　window。
　　Blocks　away；　they　saw　the　glow　of　an　illuminated　district。　Henry　Arnaud　was　looking　toward　the　strangest　and　most　fascinating　district　of　America…San　Francisco's　Chinatown。
　　The　lights　from　that　cluster　of　steep…pitched　streets　betokened　a　merging　of　Occidental　invention　with　the　glamour　of　the　Orient。　There；　within　sight　of　this　hotel；　dwelt　the　largest　settlement　of　Chinese　outside　of　China　itself。
　　Electric　signs　glowed　with　Chinese　characters。　These　were　acpanied　by　English　words。　It　was　upon　one　such　sign　that　Henry　Arnaud's　eyes　were　focused。
　　This　sign　bore　the　large　words：
　　
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　MUKDEN　THEATER。
　　
　　The　sign　itself　was　a　bizarre　Oriental　creation。　Rows　of　colored　lights　crawled　dragonlike　from　the　lower　corners　until　they　reached　a　glittering　ball　of　resplendent　incandescents　near　the　top　of　the　sign。
　　Above　these　was　a　small　circle　of　yellow　lights　that　did　not　move。　From　the　center　of　the　circle　shone　two　lights　of　green；　placed　side　by　side。　They　seemed　a　challenge　to　the　man　who　watched　them　from　the　window　of　the　hotel。
　　An　imaginative　person…had　Henry　Arnaud　been　such…might　have　sworn　that　those　lights　were　staring　back　at　him。
　　Click！　The　lamp　came　on　in　the　room。　Henry　Arnaud　arose　from　his　chair　and　walked　about。　He　doffed　his　coat　and　vest。　He　removed　his　collar　and　necktie。　He　went　to　the　telephone　and　ordered　ice　water。
　　When　the　bell　boy　arrived；　Arnaud　opened　the　door　and　stepped　into　the　hall　to　receive　the　pitcher。　He　yawned　as　he　tipped　the　servitor。
　　〃Leave　a　call　at　the　desk　for　me；〃　he　said。　〃Tell　them　seven　thirty…and　to　keep　on　ringing　until　I　wake　up。　I'm　dead　tired。　I'll　be　sleeping　soundly　ten　minutes　from　now；　and　it　takes　lots　of　noise　to　arouse　me。〃
　　〃Yes；　sir；〃　responded　the　bell　boy。
　　The　door　closed。　The　lock　clicked。　The　bell　boy　returned　to　the　elevator　and　stood　waiting　in　the　deep　silence　of　the　hall。
　　The　Aldebaran　was　a　gloomy　hotel。　When　the　bell　boy　had　gone　down　in　the　elevator；　the　place　was　as　s