seeking for the best line of action, the telephone bell rang. I crossed the room and picked up the receiver.
“Yes. Hallo. Who’s speaking?”
A crisp voice answered me.
“This is St. Giles’ Hospital. We have a Chinaman here, knifed in the street and brought in. He can’t last long. We rang you up because we found in his pocket a piece of paper with your name and address on it.”
I was very much astonished. Nevertheless, after a moment’s reflection I said that I would come down at once. St. Giles’ Hospital was, I knew, down by the docks, and it occurred to me that the Chinaman might have just come off some ship.
It was on my way down there that a sudden suspicion shot into my mind. Was the whole thing a trap? Wherever a Chinaman was, there might be the hand of Li Chang Yen. I remembered the adventure of the Baited Trap. Was the whole thing a ruse on the part of my enemies?
A little reflection convinced me that at any rate a visit to the hospital would do no harm. It was probable that the thing was not so much a plot as what is vulgarly known as a “plant.” The dying Chinaman would make some revelation to me upon which I should act, and which would
