He came to Shan Tung’s.  Beyond the softly curtained windows it was a yellow glare of light.  He entered and met the flow of life, the murmur of voices and laughter, the tinkle of glasses, the scent of cigarette smoke, and the fainter perfume of incense.  And where he had seen him last, as though he had not moved since that hour nine days ago, still with his cigarette, still sphinx-like, narrow-eyed, watchful, stood Li King.

Keith walked straight to him.  And this time, as he approached, Li King greeted him with a quick and subtle smile.  He nipped his cigarette to the tiled floor.  He was bowing, gracious.  Tonight he was not stupid.

“I have come to see Shan Tung,” said Keith.

He had half expected to be refused, in which event he was prepared to use his prerogative as an officer of the law to gain his point.  But Li King did not hesitate.  He was almost eager.  And Keith knew that Shan Tung was expecting him.

They passed behind one of the screens and then behind another, until it seemed to Keith their way was a sinuous twisting among screens.  They paused before a panel in the wall, and Li King pressed the black throat of a long-legged, swan-necked bird with huge wings and the panel opened and swung toward them.  It was dark inside, but Li King turned on a light.  Through a narrow hallway ten feet in length he led the way, unlocked a second door, and held it open, smiling at Keith.

“Up there,” he said.

A flight of steps led upward and as Keith began to mount them the door closed softly behind him.  Li King accompanied him no further.

He mounted the steps, treading softly.  At the top was another door, and this he opened as quietly as Li King had closed the one below him.  Again the omnipresent screens, and then his eyes looked out upon a scene which made him pause in astonishment.  It was a great room, a room fifty feet long by thirty in width, and never before had he beheld such luxury as it contained.  His feet sank into velvet carpets, the walls were hung richly with the golds and browns and crimsons of priceless tapestries, and carven tables and divans of deep plush and oriental chairs filled the space before him.  At the far end was a raised dais, and before this, illumined in candleglow, was a kneeling figure.  He noticed then that there were many candles burning, that the room was lighted by candles, and that in their illumination the figure did not move.  He caught the glint of armors standing up, warrior like, against the tapestries, and he wondered for a moment if the kneeling figure was a heathen god made of wood.  It was then that he smelled the odor of frankincense; it crept subtly into his nostrils and his mouth, sweetened his breath, and made him cough.

At the far end, before the dais, the kneeling figure began to move.  Its arms extended slowly, they swept backward, then out again, and three times the figure bowed itself and straightened, and with the movement came a low, human monotone.  It was over quickly.  Probably two full minutes had not passed since Keith had entered when the kneeling figure sprang to its feet with the quickness of a cat, faced about, and stood there, smiling and bowing and extending its hand.