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Page 21
Several of these pseudo lovers of hers had died. It was a point
which often occurred to her mind, but upon which she did not care
to dwell even now. But John Hampden--John Hampden was different.
He was not wholly sincere. She sighed wearily. But nevertheless
he was not like some of the others.
She started up in bed, seized with a sudden dreadful idea. He
was a detective!
She understood now why she had found so much that was white in
him, but so much that was false. His presence seemed to be very
near her. Something caressing in his voice echoed in her mind.
She found herself to be listening to the muted sounds of
Limehouse and of the waterway which flowed so close beside her.
That old longing for the home of her childhood returned tenfold,
and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She was falling in
love with this man whose object was her father's ruin. A cold
terror clutched at her heart. Even now, while their friendship
was so new, so strange, there was a query, a stark, terrifying
query, to stand up before her.
If put to the test, which would she choose?
She was unable to face that issue, and dropped back upon her
pillow, stifling a sob.
Yes, he was a detective. In some way her father had at last
attracted the serious attention of the law. Rumours of this were
flying round Chinatown, to which she had not been entirely deaf.
She thought of a hundred questions, a hundred silences, and grew
more and more convinced of the truth.
What did he mean to do? Before her a ghostly company uprose--the
shadows of some she had known with designs upon her father. John
Hampden's design was different. But might he not join that
mysterious company?
Now again she suddenly sprang upright, this time because of a
definite sound which had reached her ears from within the house:
a very faint, bell-like tinkling which ceased almost immediately.
She had heard it one night before, and quite recently; indeed, on
the night before she had met John Hampden. Cohen--Cohen, the
Jew, had died that night!
She sprang lightly on to the floor, found her slippers, and threw
a silk kimono over her nightrobe. She tiptoed cautiously to the
door and opened it.
It was at this very moment that old Huang Chow, asleep in his
cell-like apartment, was aroused by the tinkling of a bell set
immediately above his head. He awoke instantly, raised his hand
and stopped the bell. His expression, could anyone have been
present to see it, was a thing unpleasant to behold. Triumph was
in it, and cunning cruelty.
His long yellow fingers reached out for his hornrimmed spectacles
which lay upon a little table beside him. Adjusting them, he
pulled the curtains aside and shuffled silently across the large
room.
Mounting the steps to the raised writing-table, he rested his
elbows upon it, and peered down at that curious blotting-pad
which had so provoked the curiosity of Durham. Could Durham have
seen it now the mystery must have been solved. It was an
ingenious camera obscura apparatus, and dimly depicted upon its
surface appeared a reproduction of part of the storehouse
beneath! The part of it which was visible was that touched by
the light of an electric torch, carried by a man crossing the
floor in the direction of the lacquered coffin upon the gilded
pedestal!
Old Huang Chow chuckled silently, and his yellow fingers clutched
the table edge as he moved to peer more closely into the picture.
"Poor fool!" he whispered in Chinese. "Poor fool!"
It was the man who had come with the introduction from Mr.
Isaacs--a new impostor who sought to rob him, who sought to
obtain information from his daughter, who had examined his
premises last night, and had even penetrated upstairs, so that
he, old Huang Chow, had been compelled to disconnect the
apparatus and to feign sleep under the scrutiny of the intruder.
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