“Don’t know what to make of the governor this morning, by Jove I don’t!” he explained, nodding toward the closed doors.  “I’ve got instructions to let no one near him except you.  You may go in.”

“What seems to be the matter?” Keith felt out cautiously.

Cruze shrugged his thin shoulders, nipped the ash from his cigarette, and with a grimace said, “Shan Tung.”

“Shan Tung?” Keith spoke the name in a sibilant whisper.  Every nerve in him had jumped, and for an instant he thought he had betrayed himself.  Shan Tung had been there early.  And now McDowell was waiting for him and had given instructions that no other should be admitted.  If the Chinaman had exposed him, why hadn’t McDowell sent officers up to the Shack?  That was the first question that jumped into his head.  The answer came as quickly—­McDowell had not sent officers because, hating Shan Tung, he had not believed his story.  But he was waiting there to investigate.  A chill crept over Keith.

Cruze was looking at him intently.

“There’s something to this Shan Tung business,” he said.  “It’s even getting on the old man’s nerves.  And he’s very anxious to see you, Mr. Conniston.  I’ve called you up half a dozen times in the last hour.”

He nipped away his cigarette, turned alertly, and moved toward the inspector’s door.  Keith wanted to call him back, to leap upon him, if necessary, and drag him away from that deadly door.  But he neither moved nor spoke until it was too late.  The door opened, he heard Cruze announce his presence, and it seemed to him the words were scarcely out of the secretary’s mouth when McDowell himself stood in the door.

“Come in, Conniston,” he said quietly.  “Come in.”

It was not McDowell’s voice.  It was restrained, terrible.  It was the voice of a man speaking softly to cover a terrific fire raging within.  Keith felt himself doomed.  Even as he entered, his mind was swiftly gathering itself for the last play, the play he had set for himself if the crisis came.  He would cover McDowell, bind and gag him even as Cruze sauntered in the hall, escape through a window, and with Mary Josephine bury himself in the forests before pursuit could overtake them.  Therefore his amazement was unbounded when McDowell, closing the door, seized his hand in a grip that made him wince, and shook it with unfeigned gladness and relief.

“I’m not condemning you, of course,” he said.  “It was rather beastly of me to annoy your sister before you were up this morning.  She flatly refused to rouse you, and by George, the way she said it made me turn the business of getting into touch with you over to Cruze.  Sit down, Conniston.  I’m going to explode a mine under you.”

He flung himself into his swivel chair and twisted one of his fierce mustaches, while his eyes blazed at Keith.  Keith waited.  He saw the other was like an animal ready to spring and anxious to spring, the one evident stricture on his desire being that there was nothing to spring at unless it was himself.