He had never before entered the mystery house of Zani Chada, nor had he personally encountered the Eurasian, reputed to be a millionaire, but who chose, for some obscure reason, to make his abode in this old rambling building, once a country mansion, which to-day was closely invested by dockland and the narrow alleys of Chinatown.  It was curiously still in the lobby, and, as he determined, curiously Eastern.  He was conscious of a sense of exhilaration.  That Zani Chada controlled powerful influences, he knew well.  But, reviewing the precautions which he had taken, Kerry determined that the trump card was in his possession.

The Chinese servant descended the stairs again and intimated that the visitor should follow him.  Kerry, carrying his hat and cane, mounted the stairs, walked along the carpeted passage, and was ushered into a queer, low room furnished as a library.

It was lined with shelves containing strange-looking books, none of which appeared to be English.  Upon the top of the shelves were grotesque figures of gods, pieces of Chinese pottery and other Oriental ornaments.  Arms there were in the room, and rich carpets, carven furniture, and an air of luxury peculiarly exotic.  Furthermore, he detected a faint smell of opium from which fact he divined that Zani Chada was addicted to the national vice of China.

Seated before a long narrow table was the notorious Eurasian.  The table contained a number of strange and unfamiliar objects, as well as a small rack of books.  An opium pipe rested in a porcelain bowl.

Zani Chada, wearing a blue robe, sat in a cushioned chair, staring toward the Chief Inspector.  With one slender yellow hand he brushed his untidy gray hair.  His long magnetic eyes were half closed.

“Good evening, Chief Inspector Kerry,” he said.  “Won’t you be seated?”

“Thanks, I’m not staying.  I can hear what you’ve got to say standing.”

The long eyes grew a little more narrow—­the only change of expression that Zani Chada allowed himself.

“As you wish.  I have no occasion to detain you long.”

In that queer, perfumed room, with the suggestion of something sinister underlying its exotic luxury, arose a kind of astral clash as the powerful personality of the Eurasian came in contact with that of Kerry.  In a sense it was a contest of rapier and battle-axe; an insidious but powerful will enlisted against the bulldog force of the Chief Inspector.

Still through half-closed eyes Zani Chada watched his visitor, who stood, feet apart and chin thrust forward aggressively, staring with wide open, fierce blue eyes at the other.

“I’m going to say one thing,” declared Kerry, snapping out the words in a manner little short of ferocious.  He laid his hat and cane upon a chair and took a step in the direction of the narrow, laden table.  “Make me any kind of offer to buy back the evidence you think I’ve got, and I’ll bash your face as flat as a frying-pan.”