perhaps the surest and safest method of all for winning
his game. The iron man, that disciple of the Law who was merciless in
his demand of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, had let him
understand that the world would be better off without Shan Tung. This
man, who never in his life had found an excuse for the killer, now
maneuvered subtly the suggestion for a killing.

Keith was both shocked and amazed. "If anything happens, let it be in
the open and not on Shan Tung's premises," he had warned him. That
implied in McDowell's mind a cool and calculating premeditation, the
assumption that if Shan Tung was killed it would be in self-defense.
And Keith's blood leaped to the thrill of it. He had not only found the
depths of McDowell's personal interest in Miriam Kirkstone, but a last
weapon had been placed in his hands, a weapon which he could use this
day if it became necessary. Cornered, with no other hope of saving
himself, he could as a last resort kill Shan Tung--and McDowell would
stand behind him!

He went directly to Shan Tung's cafe and sauntered in. There were large
changes in it since four years ago. The moment he passed through its
screened vestibule, he felt its oriental exclusiveness, the sleek and
mysterious quietness of it. One might have found such a place catering
to the elite of a big city. It spoke sumptuously of a large expenditure
of money, yet there was nothing bizarre or irritating to the senses.
Its heavily-carved tables were almost oppressive in their solidity.
Linen and silver, like Shan Tung himself, were immaculate.
Magnificently embroidered screens were so cleverly arranged that one
saw not all of the place at once, but caught vistas of it. The few
voices that Keith heard in this pre-lunch hour were subdued, and the
speakers were concealed by screens. Two orientals, as immaculate as the
silver and linen, were moving about with the silence of velvet-padded
lynxes. A third, far in the rear, stood motionless as one of the carven
tables, smoking a cigarette and watchful as a ferret. This was Li King,
Shan Tung's right-hand man.

Keith approached him. When he was near enough, Li King gave the
slightest inclination to his head and took the cigarette from his
mouth. Without movement or speech he registered the question, "What do
you want?"

Keith knew this to be a bit of oriental guile. In his mind there was no
doubt that Li King had been fully instructed by his master and that he
had be