"Good evening, John Keith!" He was close, smiling, his eyes glowing,
his hand still outstretched, friendliness in his voice and manner. And
yet in that voice there was a purr, the purr of a cat watching its
prey, and in his eyes a glow that was the soft rejoicing of a triumph.
Keith did not take the hand. He made as if he did not see it. He was
looking into those glowing, confident eyes of the Chinaman. A Chinaman!
Was it possible? Could a Chinaman possess that voice, whose very
perfection shamed him?
Shan Tung seemed to read his thoughts. And what he found amused him,
and he bowed again, still smiling. "I am Shan Tung," he said with the
slightest inflection of irony. "Here--in my home--I am different. Do
you not recognize me?"
He waved gracefully a hand toward a table on either side of which was a
chair. He seated himself, not waiting for Keith. Keith sat down
opposite him. Again he must have read what was in Keith's heart, the
desire and the intent to kill, for suddenly he clapped his hands, not
loudly, once--twice---
"You will join me in tea?" he asked.
Scarcely had he spoken when about them, on all sides of them it seemed
to Keith, there was a rustle of life.
Pages:
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206