VI

In the hall beyond the secretary’s room Shan Tung waited.  As McDowell was the iron and steel embodiment of the law, so Shan Tung was the flesh and blood spirit of the mysticism and immutability of his race.  His face was the face of an image made of an unemotional living tissue in place of wood or stone, dispassionate, tolerant, patient.  What passed in the brain behind his yellow-tinged eyes only Shan Tung knew.  It was his secret.  And McDowell had ceased to analyze or attempt to understand him.  The law, baffled in its curiosity, had come to accept him as a weird and wonderful mechanism—­a thing more than a man—­possessed of an unholy power.  This power was the oriental’s marvelous ability to remember faces.  Once Shan Tung looked at a face, it was photographed in his memory for years.  Time and change could not make him forget—­and the law made use of him.

Briefly McDowell had classified him at Headquarters.  “Either an exiled prime minister of China or the devil in a yellow skin,” he had written to the Commissioner.  “Correct age unknown and past history a mystery.  Dropped into Prince Albert in 1908 wearing diamonds and patent leather shoes.  A stranger then and a stranger now.  Proprietor and owner of the Shan Tung Cafe.  Educated, soft-spoken, womanish, but the one man on earth I’d hate to be in a dark room with, knives drawn.  I use him, mistrust him, watch him, and would fear him under certain conditions.  As far as we can discover, he is harmless and law-abiding.  But such a ferret must surely have played his game somewhere, at some time.”

This was the man whom Conniston had forgotten and Keith now dreaded to meet.  For many minutes Shan Tung had stood at a window looking out upon the sunlit drillground and the broad sweep of green beyond.  He was toying with his slim hands caressingly.  Half a smile was on his lips.  No man had ever seen more than that half smile illuminate Shan Tung’s face.  His black hair was sleek and carefully trimmed.  His dress was immaculate.  His slimness, as McDowell had noted, was the slimness of a young girl.

When Cruze came to announce that McDowell would see him, Shan Tung was still visioning the golden-headed figure of Miriam Kirkstone as he had seen her passing through the sunshine.  There was something like a purr in his breath as he stood interlacing his tapering fingers.  The instant he heard the secretary’s footsteps the finger play stopped, the purr died, the half smile was gone.  He turned softly.  Cruze did not speak.  He simply made a movement of his head, and Shan Tung’s feet fell noiselessly.  Only the slight sound made by the opening and closing of a door gave evidence of his entrance into the Inspector’s room.  Shan Tung and no other could open and close a door like that.  Cruze shivered.  He always shivered when Shan Tung passed him, and always he swore that he could smell something in the air, like a poison left behind.