and giving him full scope for
the exercise of his inventive power. You ask him questions and go on
asking and asking, and you do not know whether he is lying or telling the
truth."

Mr. Milburgh began to breathe heavily.

"Has that idea sunk into your mind?" asked Ling Chu.

"I don't know what you mean," said Mr. Milburgh in a quavering voice.
"All I know is that you are committing a most----"

Ling Chu stopped him with a gesture.

"I am perfectly well aware of what I am doing," he said. "Now listen to
me. A week or so ago, Mr. Thornton Lyne, your employer, was found dead
in Hyde Park. He was dressed in his shirt and trousers, and about his
body, in an endeavour to stanch the wound, somebody had wrapped a silk
night-dress. He was killed in the flat of a small lady, whose name I
cannot pronounce, but you will know her."

Milburgh's eyes never left the Chinaman's, and he nodded.

"He was killed by you," said Ling Chu slowly, "because he had discovered
that you had been robbing him, and you were in fear that he would hand
you over to the police."

"That's a lie," roared Milburgh. "It's a lie--I tell you it's a lie!"

"I shall discover whether it is a lie in a few moments," said Ling Chu.

He put his hand inside his blouse and Milburgh watched him fascinated,
but he produced nothing more deadly than a silver cigarette-case, which
he opened. He selected a cigarette and lit it, and for a few minutes
puffed in silence, his thoughtful eyes fixed upon Milburgh. Then he rose
and went to the cupboard and took out a larger bottle and placed it
beside the other.

Ling Chu pulled again at his cigarette and then threw it into the grate.

"It is in the interests of all parties," he said in his slow, halting
way, "that the truth should be known, both for the sake of my honourable
master, Lieh Jen, the Hunter, and his honourable Little Lady."

He took up his knife and bent over the terror-stricken man.

"For God's sake don't, don't," half screamed, half sobbed Milburgh.

"This will not hurt you," said Ling Chu, and drew four straight lines
across the other's breast. The keen razor edge seemed scarcely to touch
the flesh, yet where the knife had passed was a thin red mark like a
scratch.

Milburgh scarcely felt a twinge of pain, only a mild irritating smarting
and no more. The Chinaman laid down the knife and took up the smaller
bottle.

"In this," he said, "is a vegetable extract. It is what you would call
capsicum,