to the senses.  Its heavily-carved tables were almost oppressive in their solidity.  Linen and silver, like Shan Tung himself, were immaculate.  Magnificently embroidered screens were so cleverly arranged that one saw not all of the place at once, but caught vistas of it.  The few voices that Keith heard in this pre-lunch hour were subdued, and the speakers were concealed by screens.  Two orientals, as immaculate as the silver and linen, were moving about with the silence of velvet-padded lynxes.  A third, far in the rear, stood motionless as one of the carven tables, smoking a cigarette and watchful as a ferret.  This was Li King, Shan Tung’s right-hand man.

Keith approached him.  When he was near enough, Li King gave the slightest inclination to his head and took the cigarette from his mouth.  Without movement or speech he registered the question, “What do you want?”

Keith knew this to be a bit of oriental guile.  In his mind there was no doubt that Li King had been fully instructed by his master and that he had been expecting him, even watching for him.  Convinced of this, he gave him one of Conniston’s cards and said,

“Take this to Shan Tung.  He is expecting me.”

Li King looked at the card, studied it for a moment with apparent stupidity, and shook his head.  “Shan Tung no home.  Gone away.”

That was all.  Where he had gone or when he would return Keith could not discover from Li King.  Of all other matters except that he had gone away the manager of Shan Tung’s affairs was ignorant.  Keith felt like taking the yellow-skinned hypocrite by the throat and choking something out of him, but he realized that Li King was studying and watching him, and that he would report to Shan Tung every expression that had passed over his face.  So he looked at his watch, bought a cigar at the glass case near the cash register, and departed with a cheerful nod, saying that he would call again.

Ten minutes later he determined on a bold stroke.  There was no time for indecision or compromise.  He must find Shan Tung and find him quickly.  And he believed that Miriam Kirkstone could give him a pretty good tip as to his whereabouts.  He steeled himself to the demand he was about to make as he strode up to the house on the hill.  He was disappointed again.  Miss Kirkstone was not at home.  If she was, she did not answer to his knocking and bell ringing.

He went to the depot.  No one he questioned had seen Shan Tung at the west-bound train, the only train that had gone out that morning, and the agent emphatically disclaimed selling him a ticket.  Therefore he had not gone far.  Suspicion leaped red in Keith’s brain.  His imagination pictured Shan Tung at that moment with Miriam Kirkstone, and at the thought his disgust went out against them both.  In this humor he returned to McDowell’s office.  He stood before his chief, leaning toward him over the desk table.  This time he was the inquisitor.