“This is the lay—” Hook began, and stopped, tongue-tied.
A step had sounded in the next room.
Immediately the British voice came through the portières, and there was an edge of exasperation to the drawl now:
“This is really too much! I can’t”—he said reahly and cawnt —“leave for a moment without having things done all wrong. Now just what got into you, Elvira, that you must go in and exhibit yourself to our detective friend?”
Fear flashed into her smoke-grey eyes, and out again, and she spoke airily:
“Don’t be altogether yellow,” she said. “Your precious neck can get along all right without so much guarding.”
The portières parted, and I twisted my head around as far as I could get it for my first look at this man who was responsible for my still being alive. I saw a short fat man, hatted and coated for the street, and carrying a tan traveling bag in one hand.
Then his face came into the yellow circle of light, and I saw that it was a Chinese face. A short fat Chinese, immaculately clothed in garments that were as British as his accent.
“It isn’t a matter of color,” he told the girl—and I understood now the full sting of her jibe; “it’s simply a matter of ordinary wisdom.”
His face was a round yellow mask, and his voice was the same emotionless drawl that I had heard before; but I knew that he was as surely under the girl’s sway as the ugly man—or he wouldn’t have let her taunt bring him into the room. But I doubted that she’d find this Anglicized oriental as easily handled as Hook.