sory to the crime, was in the pay of those who were”…
“Well?”—Stringer spoke the word eagerly, his eyes upon the inspector’s face.
“And those who were accessory,”—continued Dunbar, “were servants of Mr. King.”
“Ah!” Stringer brought his fist down with a bang—“Mr. King! That’s where I am in the dark, and where Sowerby, here, is in the dark.” He bent forward over the table. “Who the devil is Mr. King?”
Dunbar twirled his whisky glass between his fingers.
“We don’t know,” he replied quietly, “but Soames does, in all probability; and that’s why we’re looking for Soames.”
“Is it why we’re looking in Limehouse?” persisted Stringer, the argumentative.
“It is,” snapped Dunbar. “We have only got one Chinatown worthy of the name, in London, and that’s not ten minutes’ walk from here.”
“Chinatown—yes,” said Sowerby, his red face glistening with excitement; “but why look for Mr. King in Chinatown?”
“Because,” replied Dunbar, lowering his voice, “Mr. King in all probability is a Chinaman.”
“Who says so?” demanded Stringer.
“Max says so…”
“Max!”—again Stringer beat his fist upon the table. “Now we have got to it! We’re working,
