bring Keith back with you, or, if not
Keith, at least a written confession, signed by him?" he demanded.

This was a blow from behind for Keith. "What--what has Keith got to do
with this?" he stumbled.

"More than I dare tell you, Conniston. But WHY didn't you bring back a
signed confession from him? A dying man is usually willing to make
that."

"If he is guilty, yes," agreed Keith. "But this man was a different
sort. If he killed Judge Kirkstone, he had no regret. He did not
consider himself a criminal. He felt that he had dealt out justice in
his own way, and therefore, even when he was dying, he would not sign
anything or state anything definitely."

McDowell subsided into his chair.

"And the curse of it is I haven't a thing on Shan Tung," he gritted.
"Not a thing. Miriam Kirkstone is her own mistress, and in the eyes of
the law he is as innocent of crime as I am. If she is voluntarily
giving herself as a victim to this devil, it is her own
business--legally, you understand. Morally--"

He stopped, his savagely gleaming eyes boring Keith to the marrow.

"He hates you as a snake hates fire-water. It is possible, if he
thought the opportunity had come to him--"

Again he paused, cryptic, waiting for the other to gather the thing he
had not spoken. Keith, simulating two of Conniston's tricks at the same
time, shrugged a shoulder and twisted a mustache as he rose to his
feet. He smiled coolly down at the iron man. For once he gave a
passable imitation of the Englishman.

"And he's going to have the opportunity today," he said
understandingly. "I think, old chap, I'd better be going. I'm rather
anxious to see Shan Tung before dinner."

McDowell followed him to the door.

His face had undergone a change. There was a tense expectancy, almost
an eagerness there. Again he gripped Keith's hand, and before the door
opened he said,

"If trouble comes between you let it be in the open, Conniston--in the
open and not on Shan Tung's premises."

Keith went out, his pulse quickening to the significance of the iron
man's words, and wondering what the "mine" was that McDowell had
promised to explode, but which he had not.

XVII

Keith lost no time in heading for Shan Tung's. He was like a man
playing chess, and the moves were becoming so swift and so intricate
that his mind had no rest. Each hour brought forth its fresh
necessities and its new alternatives. It was McDowell who had given him
his last cue,