CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MR. MORI YADA
Ayscough was on his guard as soon as he saw that smile. He had had some experience of various national charactertistics in his time, and he knew that when an Eastern meets you with a frank and smiling countenance you had better keep all your wits about you. He began the exercise of his own with a polite bow—while executing it, he took a rapid inventory of Mr. Mori Yada. About—as near as he could judge—two or three and twenty; a black-haired, black-eyed young gentleman; evidently fastidious about his English clothes, his English linen, his English ties, smart socks, and shoes—a good deal of a dandy, in short—and, judging from his surroundings, very fond of English comfort—and not averse to the English custom of taking a little spirituous refreshment with his tobacco. A decanter stood on the table at his elbow; a syphon of mineral water reared itself close by; a tumbler was within reach of Mr. Yada's slender yellowish fingers.
"Servant, Sir!" said Ayscough. "Detective Sergeant Ayscough of the Criminal Investigation Department—friend of mine, this. Sir, Mr. Yada, I believe—Mr. Mori Yada?"
Mr. Yada smiled again, and without rising, indicated two chairs.
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