expression. His hands were buried
deep in his trousers pockets, and he was puffing a cigarette. At
Keith's appearance he brightened up a bit.

"Don't know what to make of the governor this morning, by Jove I
don't!" he explained, nodding toward the closed doors. "I've got
instructions to let no one near him except you. You may go in."

"What seems to be the matter?" Keith felt out cautiously.

Cruze shrugged his thin shoulders, nipped the ash from his cigarette,
and with a grimace said, "Shan Tung."

"Shan Tung?" Keith spoke the name in a sibilant whisper. Every nerve in
him had jumped, and for an instant he thought he had betrayed himself.
Shan Tung had been there early. And now McDowell was waiting for him
and had given instructions that no other should be admitted. If the
Chinaman had exposed him, why hadn't McDowell sent officers up to the
Shack? That was the first question that jumped into his head. The
answer came as quickly--McDowell had not sent officers because, hating
Shan Tung, he had not believed his story. But he was waiting there to
investigate. A chill crept over Keith.

Cruze was looking at him intently.

"There's something to this Shan Tung business," he said. "It's even
getting on the old man's nerves. And he's very anxious to see you, Mr.
Conniston. I've called you up half a dozen times in the last hour."

He nipped away his cigarette, turned alertly, and moved toward the
inspector's door. Keith wanted to call him back, to leap upon him, if
necessary, and drag him away from that deadly door. But he neither
moved nor spoke until it was too late. The door opened, he heard Cruze
announce his presence, and it seemed to him the words were scarcely out
of the secretary's mouth when McDowell himself stood in the door.

"Come in, Conniston," he said quietly. "Come in."

It was not McDowell's voice. It was restrained, terrible. It was the
voice of a man speaking softly to cover a terrific fire raging within.
Keith felt himself doomed. Even as he entered, his mind was swiftly
gathering itself for the last play, the play he had set for himself if
the crisis came. He would cover McDowell, bind and gag him even as
Cruze sauntered in the hall, escape through a window, and with Mary
Josephine bury himself in the forests before pursuit could overtake
them. Therefore his amazement was unbounded when McDowell, closing the
door, seized his hand in a grip that made him wince, and shook it with
unfeigned gladne