“So-so,” squeaked Furneaux.

He flung himself into a big armchair, curled up in it like an animated Buddha, and extracted one of the three ivory skulls from a waistcoat pocket.

“If you could only speak, you image of evil!” he muttered.  “You’re not so dead that you cannot work mischief.  Why the deuce, then, can’t you mouth your incantations?  Then we would listen and learn.”

Winter, still sorting his papers, cocked the cigar inquisitively on one side of his mouth.

“Oh, I have ascertained a lot about the inner politics of China,” mumbled Furneaux, irritably, gazing fixedly at the skull after one quick glance of his colleague.  “Every little helps, of course.  I have met some Chinamen this morning who would cheerfully plunge Wong Li Fu into a cauldron of boiling oil, and stir him round with a long stick when he was in it.  One man, quite an important personage in the jute line, has lost a brother and a brother-in-law, the one in Canton, the other in Pekin, and he lays both deaths at the door of the redoubtable Wong.  Another, the fellow who chanced to take up his quarters at Smith’s Hotel, is a delegate sent here specially to hunt out Wong, and destroy him.  I asked him how he meant to set about it, but his scheme is vague.  He’s an opportunist of the first water.  ’Me catchee and killee Wong Li Fu one time,’ was his best effort.  I’m going to confront Len Shi with these two in Bow Street.  They may worm something out of him.  But will they own up if they do?  Dashed if I know.  The Oriental mind is on a par with their blessed language.  It has three thousand ways of expressing one idea, and not one of ’em is our way.”

“Has Theydon gone to Fortescue Square?”

“I suppose so.  He turned up in Jermyn Street—­ outside Smith’s Hotel, if you please, with a lady in a taxi.”

“A lady?  Miss Beale?”

“No, his sister, judging from the family likeness.  His eyes grew goggled like yours when he saw the gray car.”

“Didn’t you explain matters?”

“Not I. Gave him the cut direct.  My Chinamen are shy birds, and I daren’t flutter them by letting them think there are too many foreign devils mixed up in the business.  My London Chinaman was the brainy person who got the Embassy busy when Mrs. Lester’s death was announced.  He saw Wong Li Fu’s hand in that from the first moment.  Oddly enough, though he and a man from the Embassy followed Theydon from Waterloo to Forbes’s place on Tuesday night, and again to Innesmore Mansions, he didn’t recognize him today.  Or perhaps he did.  I don’t know.  Talk about the impassive Red Indian!  A thoroughbred Chink would give a Pawnee chief one glass eye and a coat of paint, and then beat him hollow at the haughty indifference game.”

“My!” said Winter admiringly, “you’ve got your tongue loose today.  Well, here’s an item which should prove useful.  Whitechapel thinks we may find a Young Manchu or two among that collection,” and he threw an official memorandum across the table.