THE LIVING JOSS Maxwell Grant ? CHAPTER I. SHADOWS OF CHINATOWN ? CHAPTER II. THE MEETING ? CHAPTER III. THE AFTERMATH ? CHAPTER IV. A STRANGE SUMMONS ? CHAPTER V. THE LIVING JOSS ? CHAPTER VI. KWA PREPARES ? CHAPTER VII. A CHANCE CALL ? CHAPTER VIII. THE YELLOW FACE ? CHAPTER IX. AT THE UNION CLUB ? CHAPTER X. THE CRAFT OF CHUN SHI ? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW MOVES ? CHAPTER XII. THE MIGHT OF KOY SHAN ? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW’S CLEWS ? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW LEARNS ? CHAPTER XV. THE NEXT NIGHT ? CHAPTER XVI. ON THE STAIRS ? CHAPTER XVII. THE HANDS OF KWA ? CHAPTER XVIII. DOWN TO CHINATOWN ? CHAPTER XIX. THE LATE VISITOR ? CHAPTER XIX. THE LATE VISITOR ? CHAPTER XX. WORK IS ENDED ? CHAPTER XXI. CARDONA FOLLOWS A HUNCH ? CHAPTER XXII. THE LAW MOVES ? CHAPTER XXIII. CARDONA’S STRATEGY ? CHAPTER XXIV. THE SHADOW ADVANCES ? CHAPTER XXV. IN THE TEMPLE ? CHAPTER XXVI. THE ROOM BELOW ? CHAPTER XXVII. DOOM TO THE FIEND! CHAPTER I. SHADOWS OF CHINATOWN HAZY night had settled over Manhattan. The rumble of a departing elevated train came through the mist as a solitary man came down the dingy iron stairway from the downtown station. Reaching the street, the man stopped just beside the steps to light a cigarette which he had thrust in a short, goldbanded holder. The glare of the match revealed a cunning face, topped with sleek black eyebrows that indicated the color of the man’s hair. Flicking the match into the gutter, the man strolled leisurely along the street beside the elevated, walking with shoulders back, and one hand swinging idly. There was something of the military in the man’s bearing, combined with a nonchalance. His erect carriage, which made him seem taller than his middle height, was unusual for this locality; for all those who passed him amidst the fog were slouching, furtive characters. A poorly clad derelict shambled toward the erect walker and whined a request for a few cents to make up coffee money. The reply that he received was a sharp refusal, so scoffing in tone that the bum hastily slouched away. The strolling man emitted an ugly laugh, then puffed at his cigarette. He spied a narrow alleyway through the fog, and turned in that direction. The little thoroughfare was illuminated only by dull lamps when the sallow- faced man entered it; but as he reached a turn in the street, the stroller entered the zone of an indirect glare which increased as he continued to the next turn. Swinging at a sharp angle, the man came into view of a bizarre scene that seemed like a magical transformation from the sordid surroundings which he had just left. The wayfarer was approaching the outskirts of New York’s Chinatown. A city within a city, this quaint district had all the semblance of an Oriental metropolis in miniature. The hovering fog added to the picturesque glow of lighted doors and windows. The curving street led on toward a brilliant zone which might well have been a portion of old Shanghai. Yellow faces peered from shops. Corner loungers, despite their American clothes, proved to be Chinese. A PLEASED, knowing smile appeared upon the stroller’s lips. The sallow- complexioned man seemed to find a familiar interest in his new surroundings. His shifting eyes noted the features of solemn-faced Celestials. Still smoking his cigarette, the man was noting the expressions of yellow faces with an observation that denoted understanding. The visitor’s shifting gaze noted more than those who passed him on the street. His shrewd eyes glanced into Oriental shops, into ground-floor eating rooms, where Chinamen were gibbering as they manipulated chopsticks over bowls of rice. At times the stroller paused, catching words that he heard uttered; then he continued onward into Chinatown. He reached the corner of Mott and Pell Streets, that busy center in the heart of the Chinese district. Here, his eyes roved while his hands inserted a new cigarette into the holder. The man looked up toward a lighted balcony high above the street - the reputed headquarters of a Chinese tong. Then his steadying gaze centered itself upon the many yellow faces that were passing. Two Chinamen walked by, engaged in low discussion between themselves. The sallow-faced man watched them with narrowing gaze. He strolled after them as they continued up one thoroughfare. The Orientals, clad in American garments, did not notice the man behind them. They turned into a side street. The sallow-faced man paused to light his cigarette, then again followed. The new thoroughfare was nothing more than a dingy alley, lined by blank walls, with occasional obscure shops. A single light, jutting from a wall, indicated a restaurant about a hundred feet ahead. This was obviously the destination of the conversing Chinamen. So intent, however, was the sallow-faced man that he paid no attention to anything other than the men just ahead of him. He did not notice that there was someone else going in the same direction, but on the other side of the street. In fact, he could scarcely have seen this new personage, for the stranger’s presence was barely visible. A tall, moving form that had a human shape; a weird phantom of the night - this was all that indicated the one who was taking a course parallel to the Chinamen and their follower. More apparent, indeed, than the shape which caused it, was a long, grotesque shadow that moved upon the opposite sidewalk. A silhouetted blotch that kept pace with the Chinamen and the man behind them; this was the chief manifestation of the hidden being who had entered the odd picture. The Chinamen stopped at the light and went into the obscure restaurant. This consisted of a fair-sized room, with nearly a dozen tables. At the present hour, it was deserted. The Chinamen took a table at the side of the room. A few minutes later, the sallow-faced man entered. He looked about him with A few minutes later, the sallow-faced man entered. He looked about him with the air of a man who had made an interesting discovery. He sat down at a vacant table. One of the Celestials blinked blandly at the newcomer, then spoke to his companion. The gist of his remark - in Chinese - was that this must be some chance American making a random trip to Chinatown. A waiter appeared, carrying bowls of food, which he placed before the Chinese patrons. They were evidently regular eaters here. When the waiter turned to the American, the latter addressed him in singsong fashion. “Chop suey?” he asked. “You givee chop suey here? Make him quick. Chop suey.” Again, one of the Chinamen spoke in his native tongue. He mentioned that this man was unquestionably a chance sightseer. Chop suey was a dish favored by those who were not accustomed to real Chinese delicacies. This restaurant served it only for strangers such as this one. TO most Occidentals, Chinese faces are expressionless. But to the sallow man seated in this obscure seated in this obscure restaurant, it was plain that the dining Celestials had come here to converse in private. He had noted their peculiar reticence when he had first observed them at Mott and Pell. They were speaking freely now, and the listener understood their jargon. Pretending to be a chance stroller, he was playing the part of eavesdropper. He learned from the conversation that they were Chinatown merchants; and while he clumsily fumbled with chopsticks over a bowl of chop suey, he waited for a new trend in the discussion. The Chinamen were paying no attention to him. He was apparently interested only in the chop suey. Hence neither the speaker nor the listeners were aware that another watcher had arrived. Peering through the corner of the front window, an unseen personage was watching the Chinamen as they spoke, and also casting occasional glances in the direction of the sallow-faced American. His form invisible against the wall outside the building, this being had become a specter of the night. Silent specter of the night. Silent and watchful, he was observing all that passed within the room, and his keen eyes spotted the fact that the sallow-faced man was secretly interested in the Chinese discussion. “You say, then,” remarked one solemn Chinaman, in his native tongue, “that he has returned.” “I do not say that he has returned,” replied the other. “I say only that which I have heard. There is talk about Kwa. Talk that he is here.” “Kwa has long been expected. Each time that he came before, it was soon learned that he was here.” “Yes; and each time that Kwa departed, we heard no more of him until he returned.” The yellow faces peered soberly at each other. Then one Chinese merchant took up the thought that was evidently in the minds of both. “Kwa is called the Living Joss. His power is great among those who believe in him. It is wise not to speak too much of Kwa.” “The abode of Kwa is secret” - the added statement came from the second Chinaman - “and only those who believe can see the face of Kwa. No one can name those who believe in Kwa, nor those who do not believe in Kwa.” There was long silence. Not an expression appeared upon either yellow countenance. Yet the words, to one who understood the Chinese temperament were filled with definite meaning. KWA, the Living Joss! Was he a myth or a real dweller here in New York’s Chinatown? A being reputed by some to be almost a deity in human form, the followers of Kwa were a secret body who kept their beliefs to themselves. These merchants, apparently close friends, had retired to seclusion before they dared bring up this tremendous subject. Even by themselves, they spoke in cautious tones. Neither one could be sure whether or not the other was a follower of Kwa. In Chinatown, adherence to a cause meant more than long friendship.