You may go in."
"What seems to be the matter?" Keith felt out cautiously.
Cruze shrugged his thin shoulders, nipped the ash from his cigarette,
and with a grimace said, "Shan Tung."
"Shan Tung?" Keith spoke the name in a sibilant whisper. Every nerve in
him had jumped, and for an instant he thought he had betrayed himself.
Shan Tung had been there early. And now McDowell was waiting for him
and had given instructions that no other should be admitted. If the
Chinaman had exposed him, why hadn't McDowell sent officers up to the
Shack? That was the first question that jumped into his head. The
answer came as quickly--McDowell had not sent officers because, hating
Shan Tung, he had not believed his story. But he was waiting there to
investigate. A chill crept over Keith.
Cruze was looking at him intently.
"There's something to this Shan Tung business," he said. "It's even
getting on the old man's nerves. And he's very anxious to see you, Mr.
Conniston. I've called you up half a dozen times in the last hour."
He nipped away his cigarette, turned alertly, and moved toward the
inspector's door. Keith wanted to call him back, to leap upon him, if
necessary, and drag him away from that deadly door.
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