Dunbar, "we're working on the theory that Soames,
though actually not accessory to the crime, was in the pay of those who
were"...

"Well?"--Stringer spoke the word eagerly, his eyes upon the inspector's
face.

"And those who WERE accessory,"--continued Dunbar, "were servants of Mr.
King."

"Ah!" Stringer brought his fist down with a bang--"Mr. King! That's
where I am in the dark, and where Sowerby, here, is in the dark." He
bent forward over the table. "Who the devil is Mr. King?"

Dunbar twirled his whisky glass between his fingers.

"We don't know," he replied quietly, "but Soames does, in all
probability; and that's why we're looking for Soames."

"Is it why we're looking in Limehouse?" persisted Stringer, the
argumentative.

"It is," snapped Dunbar. "We have only got one Chinatown worthy of the
name, in London, and that's not ten minutes' walk from here."

"Chinatown--yes," said Sowerby, his red face glistening with excitement;
"but why look for Mr. King in Chinatown?"

"Because," replied Dunbar, lowering his voice, "Mr. King in all
probability is a Chinaman."

"Who says so?" demanded Stringer.

"Max says so..."

"MAX!"--again Stringer beat his fist upon the table. "Now we have got to
it! We're working, then, not on our own theories, but on those of Max?"

Dunbar's sallow face flushed slightly, and his eyes seemed to grow
brighter.

"Mr. 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 o