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Page 15
To his surprise Shan Tung seemed utterly oblivious of his presence. He
had not, apparently, taken more than a casual glance in his direction.
In a voice which one beyond the door might have mistaken for a woman's,
he was saying to McDowell:
"I have seen the man you sent me to see, Mr. McDowell. It is Larsen. He
has changed much in eight years. He has grown a beard. He has lost an
eye. His hair has whitened. But it is Larsen." The faultlessness of his
speech and the unemotional but perfect inflection of his words made
Keith, like the young secretary, shiver where he stood. In McDowell's
face he saw a flash of exultation.
"He had no suspicion of you, Shan Tung?"
"He did not see me to suspect. He will be there--when--" Slowly he
faced Keith. "--When Mr. Conniston goes to arrest him," he finished.
He inclined his head as he backed noiselessly toward the door. His
yellow eyes did not leave Keith's face. In them Keith fancied that he
caught a sinister gleam. There was the faintest inflection of a new
note in his voice, and his fingers were playing again, but not as when
he had looked out through the window at Miriam Kirkstone. And then--in
a flash, it seemed to Keith--the Chinaman's eyes closed to narrow
slits, and the pupils became points of flame no larger than the
sharpened ends of a pair of pencils. The last that Keith was conscious
of seeing of Shan Tung was the oriental's eyes. They had seemed to drag
his soul half out of his body.
"A queer devil," said McDowell. "After he is gone, I always feel as if
a snake had been in the room. He still hates you, Conniston. Three
years have made no difference. He hates you like poison. I believe he
would kill you, if he had a chance to do it and get away with the
Business. And you--you blooming idiot--simply twiddle your mustache and
laugh at him! I'd feel differently if I were in your boots."
Inwardly Keith was asking himself why it was that Shan Tung had hated
Conniston.
McDowell added nothing to enlighten him. He was gathering up a number
of papers scattered on his desk, smiling with a grim satisfaction.
"It's Larsen all right if Shan Tung says so," he told Keith. And then,
as if he had only thought of the matter, he said, "You're going to
reenlist, aren't you, Conniston?"
"I still owe the Service a month or so before my term expires, don't I?
After that--yes--I believe I shall reenlist."
"Good!" approved the Inspector. "I'll have you a sergeancy within a
month. Meanwhile you're off duty and may do anything you please. You
know Brady, the Company agent? He's up the Mackenzie on a trip, and
here's the key to his shack. I know you'll appreciate getting under a
real roof again, and Brady won't object as long as I collect his thirty
dollars a month rent. Of course Barracks is open to you, but it just
occurred to me you might prefer this place while on furlough.
Everything is there from a bathtub to nutcrackers, and I know a little
Jap in town who is hunting a job as a cook. What do you say?"
"Splendid!" cried Keith. "I'll go up at once, and if you'll hustle the
Jap along, I'll appreciate it. You might tell him to bring up stuff for
dinner," he added.
McDowell gave him a key. Ten minutes later he was out of sight of
barracks and climbing a green slope that led to Brady's bungalow.
In spite of the fact that he had not played his part brilliantly, he
believed that he had scored a triumph. Andy Duggan had not recognized
him, and the riverman had been one of his most intimate friends.
McDowell had accepted him apparently without a suspicion. And Shan
Tung--
It was Shan Tung who weighed heavily upon his mind, even as his nerves
tingled with the thrill of success. He could not get away from the
vision of the Chinaman as he had backed through the Inspector's door,
the flaming needle-points of his eyes piercing him as he went. It was
not hatred he had seen in Shan Tung's face. He was sure of that. It was
no emotion that he could describe. It was as if a pair of mechanical
eyes fixed in the head of an amazingly efficient mechanical monster had
focused themselves on him in those few instants. It made him think of
an X-ray machine. But Shan Tung was human. And he was clever. Given
another skin, one would not have taken him for what he was. The
immaculateness of his speech and manners was more than unusual; it was
positively irritating, something which no Chinaman should rightfully
possess. So argued Keith as he went up to Brady's bungalow.
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