She wondered why she was surprised, and suddenly realized that it was because of the expression in his eyes, for it was an expression of cold anger. Then the intruder spoke.
“Who are you?” he demanded, speaking with an accent which was unfamiliar to her, but in a voice which was not unlike the voice of Lou Chada. “Who brought you here?”
This was so wholly unexpected that for a moment she found herself unable to reply, but finally:
“How dare you!” she cried, her native courage reasserting itself. “I have been drugged and brought to this place. You shall pay for it. How dare you!”
“Ah!” The long, dark eyes regarded her unmovingly. “But who are you?”
“I am Lady Rourke. Open the door. You shall bitterly regret this outrage.”
“You are Lady Rourke?” the man repeated. “Before you speak of regrets, answer the question which I have asked: Who brought you here?”
“Ah!” There was no alteration of pose, no change of expression, but slightly the intonation had varied.
“I don’t know who you are, but I demand to be released from this place instantly.”
The man standing before the curtained door slightly inclined his head.
“You shall be released,” he replied, “but not instantly. I will see the one who brought you here. He may not be entirely to blame. Before you leave we shall understand one another.”
Tone and glance were coldly angry. Then, before the frightened woman could say another word, the man in the blue robe robe withdrew, the curtain was dropped again, and she heard the grating of a key in the lock. She ran to the door, beating upon it with her clenched hands.
“Let me go!” she cried, half hysterically. “Let me go! You shall pay for this! Oh, you shall pay for this!”
No one answered, and, turning, she leaned back against the curtain, breathing heavily and fighting for composure, for strength.
ZANI CHADA, THE EURASIAN
“I can’t help thinking, Chief Inspector,” said the officer in charge at Limehouse Station, “that you take unnecessary risks.”
“Can’t you?” said Kerry, tilting his bowler farther forward and staring truculently at the speaker.
“No, I can’t. Since you cleaned up the dope gang down here you’ve been a marked man. These murders in the Chinatown area, of which this one to-night makes the third, have got some kind of big influence behind them. Yet you wander about in the fog without even a gun in your pocket.”
“I don’t believe in guns,” rapped Kerry. “My bare hands are good enough for any yellow smart in this area. And if they give out I can kick like a mule.”
The other laughed, shaking his head.
“It’s silly, all the same,” he persisted. “The man who did the job out there in the fog to-night might have knifed you or shot you long before you could have got here.”