open, and I could see right to the end of the gloomy hall. Ah Tsong presently re-appeared, shuffling along in our direction. Unemotionally:
“Master no got,” he repeated.
Paul Harley stamped his foot irritably.
“Good God, Knox,” he said, “this unreasonable fool almost exhausts my patience.”
Again he addressed Ah Tsong in Chinese, and although the man’s wrinkled ivory face exhibited no trace of emotion, a deep understanding was to be read in those oblique eyes; and a second time Ah Tsong turned and trotted back to the study. I could hear a muttered colloquy in progress, and suddenly the gaunt figure of Colin Camber burst into view.
He was shaved this morning, but arrayed as I had last seen him. Whilst he was not in that state of incoherent anger which I remembered and still resented, he was nevertheless in an evil temper.
He strode along the hallway, his large eyes widely opened, and fixing a cold stare upon the face of Harley.
“I learn that your name is Mr. Paul Harley,” he said, entirely ignoring my presence, “and you send me a very strange message. I am used to the ways of Señor Menendez, therefore your message does not deceive me. The gateway, sir, is directly behind you.”
Harley clenched his teeth, then:
“The scaffold, Mr. Camber,” he replied, “is directly in front of you.”
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the other, and despite my resentment of the treatment which I had received at his hands, I could only admire the lofty disdain of his manner.
“I mean, Mr. Camber, that the police are close upon my heels.”
