Its heavily-carved tables were almost oppressive in their solidity.
Linen and silver, like Shan Tung himself, were immaculate.
Magnificently embroidered screens were so cleverly arranged that one
saw not all of the place at once, but caught vistas of it. The few
voices that Keith heard in this pre-lunch hour were subdued, and the
speakers were concealed by screens. Two orientals, as immaculate as the
silver and linen, were moving about with the silence of velvet-padded
lynxes. A third, far in the rear, stood motionless as one of the carven
tables, smoking a cigarette and watchful as a ferret. This was Li King,
Shan Tung's right-hand man.
Keith approached him. When he was near enough, Li King gave the
slightest inclination to his head and took the cigarette from his
mouth. Without movement or speech he registered the question, "What do
you want?"
Keith knew this to be a bit of oriental guile. In his mind there was no
doubt that Li King had been fully instructed by his master and that he
had been expecting him, even watching for him. Convinced of this, he
gave him one of Conniston's cards and said,
"Take this to Shan Tung. He is expecting me."
Li King looked at the card, studied it for a moment with apparent
stupidity, and shook his head.
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