It was his secret. And McDowell had ceased to analyze or attempt to
understand him. The law, baffled in its curiosity, had come to accept
him as a weird and wonderful mechanism--a thing more than a
man--possessed of an unholy power. This power was the oriental's
marvelous ability to remember faces. Once Shan Tung looked at a face,
it was photographed in his memory for years. Time and change could not
make him forget--and the law made use of him.
Briefly McDowell had classified him at Headquarters. "Either an exiled
prime minister of China or the devil in a yellow skin," he had written
to the Commissioner. "Correct age unknown and past history a mystery.
Dropped into Prince Albert in 1908 wearing diamonds and patent leather
shoes. A stranger then and a stranger now. Proprietor and owner of the
Shan Tung Cafe. Educated, soft-spoken, womanish, but the one man on
earth I'd hate to be in a dark room with, knives drawn. I use him,
mistrust him, watch him, and would fear him under certain conditions.
As far as we can discover, he is harmless and law-abiding. But such a
ferret must surely have played his game somewhere, at some time."
This was the man whom Conniston had forgotten and Keith now dreaded to
meet.
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