He could find no words. And
Kao, rolling up the parchment and forgetting the urn of tea that was
growing cold, leaned a little over the table again. And then it was,
deep in his narrowed, smoldering eyes, that Keith saw a devil, a
living, burning thing of passion, Kao's soul itself. And Kao's voice
was quiet, deadly.
"I recognized you in McDowell's office," he said. "I saw, first, that
you were not Derwent Conniston. And then it was easy, so easy. Perhaps
you killed Conniston. I am not asking, for I hated Conniston. Some day
I should have killed him, if he had come back. John Keith, from that
first time we met, you were a dead man. Why didn't I turn you over to
the hangman? Why did I warn you in such a way that I knew you would
come to see me? Why did I save your life which was in the hollow of my
hand? Can you guess?"
"Partly," replied Keith. "But go on. I am waiting." Not for an instant
had it enter his mind to deny that he was John Keith. Denial was folly,
a waste of time, and just now he felt that nothing in the world was
more precious to him than time.
Kao's quick mind, scheming and treacherous though it was, caught his
view-point, and he nodded appreciatively.
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