moment. He was a man of some imagination, a great reader, and
ambitious professionally. He appreciated the fact that Chief
Inspector Kerry looked for great things from him, but for this
type of work he had little inclination.

There was too much chivalry in his make-up to enable him to play
upon a woman's sentiments, even in the interests of justice. By
whatever means the man Cohen had met his death, and whether or no
the Chinaman Pi Lung had died by the same hand, Lala Huang was
innocent of any complicity in these matters, he was perfectly
well assured.

Doubts were to come later when he was away from her, when he had
had leisure to consider that she might regard him in the light of
a third potential rifler of her father's treasure-house. But at
the moment, looking down into her dark eyes, he reproached
himself and wondered where his true duty lay.

"It is so gray and dull and sordid here," said the girl, looking
down the darkened street. "There is no one much to talk to."

"But you have your business interests to keep you employed during
the day, after all."

"I hate it all. I hate it all."

"But you seem to have perfect freedom?"

"Yes. My mother, you see, was not Chinese."