“Yin Hung!” she exclaimed.
“Hoo Lun isn’t one of the others?” I asked, pointing to the spectators.
She shook her head emphatically, and began jabbering Chinese at my prisoner. He jabbered back, meeting her gaze.
“What are you going to do with him?” she asked me in a voice that wasn’t quite right.
“Turn him over to the police to hold for the San Mateo sheriff. Can you get anything out of him?”
“No.”
I began to push him toward the door. The steel-spectacled Chinese blocked the way, one hand behind him.
“No can do,” he said.
I slammed Yin Hung into him. He went back against the wall.
“Get out!” I yelled at the girl.
The grey-haired man stopped two Chinese who dashed for the door, sent them the other way—back hard against the wall.
We left the place.
There was no excitement in the street. We climbed into the taxicab and drove the block and a half to the Hall of Justice, where I yanked my prisoner out. The rancher Paul said he wouldn’t go in, that he had enjoyed the party, but now had some of his own business to look after. He went on up Kearney Street afoot.
Half-out of the taxicab, Lillian Shan changed her mind.