kincense; it crept subtly into his nostrils and his mouth,
sweetened his breath, and made him cough.

At the far end, before the dais, the kneeling figure began to move. Its
arms extended slowly, they swept backward, then out again, and three
times the figure bowed itself and straightened, and with the movement
came a low, human monotone. It was over quickly. Probably two full
minutes had not passed since Keith had entered when the kneeling figure
sprang to its feet with the quickness of a cat, faced about, and stood
there, smiling and bowing and extending its hand.

"Good evening, John Keith!" It was Shan Tung. An oriental gown fell
about him, draping him like a woman. It was a crimson gown, grotesquely
ornamented with embroidered peacocks, and it flowed and swept about him
in graceful undulations as he advanced, his footfalls making not the
sound of a mouse on the velvet floors.

"Good evening, John Keith!" He was close, smiling, his eyes glowing,
his hand still outstretched, friendliness in his voice and manner. And
yet in that voice there was a purr, the purr of a cat watching its
prey, and in his eyes a glow that was the soft rejoicing of a triumph.

Keith did not take the hand. He made as if he did not see it. He was
looking into those glowing, confident eyes of the Chinaman. A Chinaman!
Was it possible? Could a Chinaman possess that voice, whose very
perfection shamed him?

Shan Tung seemed to read his thoughts. And what he found amused him,
and he bowed again, still smiling. "I am Shan Tung," he said with the
slightest inflection of irony. "Here--in my home--I am different. Do
you not recognize me?"

He waved gracefully a hand toward a table on either side of which was a
chair. He seated himself, not waiting for Keith. Keith sat down
opposite him. Again he must have read what was in Keith's heart, the
desire and the intent to kill, for suddenly he clapped his hands, not
loudly, once--twice--

"You will join me in tea?" he asked.

Scarcely had he spoken when about them, on all sides of them it seemed
to Keith, there was a rustle of life. He saw tapestries move. Before
his eyes a panel became a door. There was a clicking, a stir as of
gowns, soft footsteps, a movement in the air. Out of the panel doorway
came a Chinaman with a cloth, napkins, and chinaware. Behind him
followed a second with tea-urn and a bowl, and with the suddenness of
an apparition, without sound or movement, a third was standing at
Ke