There fell a silence.
Suddenly, in the pale face of the black image seated before the shrine, the eyes turned, scanning the company with a cold contempt.

The lips moved.

The voice, level and ironic, was that of Fang, the Sword-Pen:-- "O Fragrant Ones, when shall the foreign monsters perish like this cock ?" A man in black, with a red wand, bowed and answered harshly:-- "The time, Great Elder Brother, draws at hand." "How shall we know the hour ?" "The hour," replied the Red Wand, "shall be when the Black Dog barks." "And the day ?" Heywood pressed his ear against the chink, and listened, his five senses fused into one.
No answer came, but presently a rapid, steady clicking, strangely familiar and commonplace.

He peered in again.

The Red Wand stood by the abacus, rattling the brown beads with flying fingers, like a shroff.
Plainly, it was no real calculation, but a ceremony before the answer.
The listener clapped his ear to the crevice.