o
McDowell! Keith's eyes fell upon the card again. "With the compliments
of Shan Tung." What did the words mean? Why had Shan Tung written them
unless--with his compliments--he was giving him a warning and the
chance to save himself?

His immediate alarm grew less. The longer he contemplated the slip of
paper in his hand, the more he became convinced that the inscrutable
Shan Tung was the last individual in the world to stage a bit of
melodrama without some good reason for it. There was but one conclusion
he could arrive at. The Chinaman was playing a game of his own, and he
had taken this unusual way of advising Keith to make a getaway while
the going was good. It was evident that his intention had been to avoid
the possibility of a personal discussion of the situation. That, at
least, was Keith's first impression.

He turned to examine the window. There was no doubt that Shan Tung had
come in that way. Both the sill and curtain bore stains of water and
mud, and there was wet dirt on the floor. For once the immaculate
oriental had paid no attention to his feet. At the door leading into
the big room Keith saw where he had stood for some time, listening,
probably when McDowell and Mary Josephine were in the outer room
waiting for him. Suddenly his eyes riveted themselves on the middle
panel of the door. Brady had intended his color scheme to be old
ivory--the panel itself was nearly white--and on it Shan Tung had
written heavily with a lead pencil the hour of his presence, "10.45
P.M." Keith's amazement found voice in a low exclamation. He looked at
his watch. It was a quarter-hour after twelve. He had returned to the
Shack before ten, and the clever Shan Tung was letting him know in this
cryptic fashion that for more than three-quarters of an hour he had
listened at the door and spied upon him and Mary Josephine through the
keyhole.

Had even such an insignificant person as Wallie been guilty of that
act, Keith would have felt like thrashing him. It surprised himself
that he experienced no personal feeling of outrage at Shan Tung's frank
confession of eavesdropping. A subtle significance began to attach
itself more and more to the story his room was telling him. He knew
that Shan Tung had left none of the marks of his presence out of
bravado, but with a definite purpose. Keith's psychological mind was at
all times acutely ready to seize upon possibilities, and just as his
positiveness of Conniston's spiritual presen