Gaston Max obtained information in Paris," he said, "which
he placed, unreservedly, at my disposal. We went into the matter
thoroughly, with the result that our conclusions were identical.
A certain Mr. King is at the bottom of this mystery, and, in all
probability, Mr. King is a Chinaman. Do I make myself clear?"
Sowerby and Stringer looked at one another, perplexedly. Each man
finished his drink in silence. Then:
"What took place in Paris?" began Sowerby.
There was an interruption. A stooping figure in a shabby, black
frock-coat, the figure of a man who wore a dilapidated bowler pressed
down upon his ears, who had a greasy, Semitic countenance, with a
scrubby, curling, sandy colored beard, sparse as the vegetation of a
desert, appeared at Sowerby's elbow.
He carried a brimming pewter pot. This he set down upon a corner of the
table, depositing himself in a convenient chair and pulling out a very
dirty looking letter from an inside pocket. He smoothed it carefully. He
peered, little-eyed, from the frowning face of Dunbar to the surprised
countenance of Sowerby, and smiled with native amiability at the
dangerous-looking Stringer.
"Excuthe me," he said, and his propitiatory smile was expansive and
dazzling, "excuthe me buttin' in like thith.
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