He could get away. The night
would swallow him up. A moment later he was mentally castigating
himself for the treachery of that impulse to Mary Josephine. His
floundering senses began to readjust themselves.
Why had Shan Tung given him this warning? Why had he not gone straight
to Inspector McDowell with the astounding disclosure of the fact that
the man supposed to be Derwent Conniston was not Derwent Conniston, but
John Keith, the murderer of Miriam Kirkstone's father?
The questions brought to Keith a new thrill. He read the note again. It
was a definite thing stating a certainty and not a guess. Shan Tung had
not shot at random. He knew. He knew that he was not Derwent Conniston
but John Keith. And he believed that he had killed the Englishman to
steal his identity. In the face of these things he had not gone to
McDowell! Keith's eyes fell upon the card again. "With the compliments
of Shan Tung." What did the words mean? Why had Shan Tung written them
unless--with his compliments--he was giving him a warning and the
chance to save himself?
His immediate alarm grew less. The longer he contemplated the slip of
paper in his hand, the more he became convinced that the inscrutable
Shan Tung was the last individual in the world to stage a bit of
melodrama without some good reason for it.
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