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Turan waited, listening. He heard no sound. Then he advanced to the door and
placed an ear against it. All was silence in the street beyond. A sudden draft must
have closed the door, or perhaps it was the duty of the patrol to see to such
things. It was immaterial. They had evidently passed on and now he would return
to the street and continue upon his way. Somewhere there would be a public
fountain where he could obtain water, and the chance of food lay in the strings of
dried vegetables and meat which hung before the doorways of nearly every
Barsoomian home of the poorer classes that he had ever seen. It was this district
he was seeking, and it was for this reason his search had led him away from the
main gate of the city which he knew would not be located in a poor district.
He attempted to open the door only to find that it resisted his every effort--it was
locked upon the outside. Here indeed was a sorry contretemps. Turan the
panthan scratched his head. "Fortune frowns upon me," he murmured; but
beyond the door, Fate, in the form of a painted warrior, stood smiling. Neatly had
he tricked the unwary stranger. The lighted doorway, the marching patrol--these
had been planned and timed to a nicety by the third warrior who had sped ahead
of Turan along another avenue, and the stranger had done precisely what the
fellow had thought he would do--no wonder, then, that he smiled.
This exit barred to him Turan turned back into the corridor. He followed it
cautiously and silently. Occasionally there was a door on one side or the other.
These he tried only to find each securely locked. The corridor wound more
erratically the farther he advanced. A locked door barred his way at its end, but a
door upon his right opened and he stepped into a dimly-lighted chamber, about
the walls of which were three other doors, each of which he tried in turn. Two
were locked; the other opened upon a runway leading downward. It was spiral
and he could see no farther than the first turn. A door in the corridor he had
quitted opened after he had passed, and the third warrior stepped out and
followed after him. A faint smile still lingered upon the fellow's grim lips.
Turan drew his short-sword and cautiously descended. At the bottom was a short
corridor with a closed door at the end. He approached the single heavy panel and
listened. No sound came to him from beyond the mysterious portal. Gently he
tried the door, which swung easily toward him at his touch. Before him was a
low-ceiled chamber with a dirt floor. Set in its walls were several other doors and
all were closed. As Turan stepped cautiously within, the third warrior descended
the spiral runway behind him. The panthan crossed the room quickly and tried a
door. It was locked. He heard a muffled click behind him and turned about with
ready sword. He was alone; but the door through which he had entered was
closed--it was the click of its lock that he had heard.
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