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he muttered, shrugging off the possibility as absurd, and, walking to the door, called his Chinese servant.

      Ling Chu came silently at his bidding.

      "Ling Chu," he said, "the white-faced man is dead."

      Ling Chu raised his imperturbable eyes to his master's face.

      "All men die some time," he said calmly. "This man quick die. That is better than long die."

      Tarling looked at him sharply.

      "How do you know that he quick die?" he demanded.

      "These things are talked about," said Ling Chu without hesitation.

      "But not in the Chinese language," replied Tarling, "and, Ling Chu, you speak no English."

      "I speak a little, master," said Ling Chu, "and I have heard these things in the streets."

      Tarling did not answer immediately, and the Chinaman waited.

      "Ling Chu," he said after awhile, "this man came to Shanghai whilst we were there, and there was trouble-trouble. Once he was thrown out from Wing Fu's tea-house, where he had been smoking opium. Also there was another trouble—do you remember?"

      The Chinaman looked him straight in the eyes.

      "I am forgetting," he said. "This white-face was a bad man. I am glad he is dead."

      "Humph!" said Tarling, and dismissed his retainer.

      Ling Chu was the cleverest of all his sleuths, a man who never lifted his nose from the trail once it was struck, and he had been the most loyal and faithful of Tarling's native trailers. But the detective never pretended that he understood Ling Chu's mind, or that he could pierce the veil which the native dropped between his own private thoughts and the curious foreigner. Even native criminals were baffled in their interpretation of Ling Chu's views, and many a man had gone to the scaffold puzzling the head, which was soon to be snicked from his body, over the method by which Ling Chu had detected his crime.

      Tarling went back to the table and picked up the newspaper, but had hardly begun to read when the telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver and listened. To his amazement it was the voice of Cresswell, the Assistant Commissioner of Police, who had been instrumental in persuading Tarling to come to England.

      "Can you come round to the Yard immediately, Tarling?" said the voice. "I want to talk to you about this murder."

      "Surely," said Tarling. "I'll be with you in a few minutes."

      In five minutes he was at Scotland Yard and was ushered into the office of Assistant Commissioner Cresswell. The white-haired man who came across to meet him with a smile of pleasure in his eyes disclosed the object of the summons.

      "I'm going to bring you into this case, Tarling," he said. "It has certain aspects which seem outside the humdrum experience of our own people. It is not unusual, as you know," he said, as he motioned the other to a chair, "for Scotland Yard to engage outside help, particularly when we have a crime of this character to deal with. The facts you know," he went on, as he opened a thin folder. "These are the reports, which you can read at your leisure. Thornton Lyne was, to say the least, eccentric. His life was not a particularly wholesome one, and he had many undesirable acquaintances, amongst whom was a criminal and ex-convict who was only released from gaol a few days ago."

      "That's rather extraordinary," said Tarling, lifting his eyebrows. "What had he in common with the criminal?"

      Commissioner Cresswell shrugged his shoulders.

      "My own view is that this acquaintance was rather a pose of Lyne's. He liked to be talked about. It gave him a certain reputation for character amongst his friends."

      "Who is the criminal?" asked Tarling.

      "He is a man named Stay, a petty larcenist, and in my opinion a much more dangerous character than the police have realised."

      "Is he–" began Tarling. But the Commissioner shook his head.

      "I think we can rule him out from the list of people who may be suspected of this murder," he said. "Sam Stay has very few qualities that would commend themselves to the average man, but there can be no doubt at all that he was devoted to Lyne, body and soul. When the detective temporarily in charge of the case went down to Lambeth to interview Stay, he found him lying on his bed prostrate with grief, with a newspaper containing the particulars of the murder by his side. The man is beside himself with sorrow, and threatens to 'do in' the person who is responsible for this crime. You can interview him later. I doubt whether you will get much out of him, because he is absolutely incoherent. Lyne was something more than human in his eyes, and I should imagine that the only decent emotion he has had in his life is this affection for a man who was certainly good to him, whether he was sincere in his philanthropy or otherwise. Now here are a few of the facts which have not been made public." Cresswell settled himself back in his chair and ticked off on his fingers the points as he made them.

      "You know that around Lyne's chest a silk night-dress was discovered?"

      Tarling nodded.

      "Under the night-dress, made into a pad, evidently with the object of arresting the bleeding, were two handkerchiefs, neatly folded, as though they had been taken from a drawer. They were ladies' handkerchiefs, so we may start on the supposition that there is a woman in the case."

      Tarling nodded.

      "Now another peculiar feature of the case, which happily has escaped the attention of those who saw the body first and gave particulars to the newspapers, was that Lyne, though fully dressed, wore a pair of thick felt slippers. They were taken out of his own store yesterday evening, as we have ascertained, by Lyne himself, who sent for one of his assistants to his office and told him to get a pair of very soft-soled slippers.

      "The third item is that Lyne's boots were discovered in the deserted motor-car which was drawn up by the side of the road a hundred yards from where the body was lying.

      "And the fourth feature—and this explains why I have brought you into the case—is that in the car was discovered his bloodstained coat and waistcoat. In the right-hand pocket of the latter garment," said Cresswell, speaking slowly, "was found this." He took from his drawer a small piece of crimson paper two inches square, and handed it without comment to the detective.

      Tarling took the paper and stared. Written in thick black ink were four Chinese characters, "tzu chao fan nao"—"He brought this trouble upon himself."

      CHAPTER VI

      THE MOTHER OF ODETTE RIDER

      The two men looked at one another in silence.

      "Well?" said the Commissioner at last.

      Tarling shook his head.

      "That's amazing," he said, and looked at the little slip of paper between his finger and thumb.

      "You see why I am bringing you in," said the Commissioner. "If there is a Chinese end to this crime, nobody knows better than you how to deal with it. I have had this slip translated. It means 'He brought this trouble upon himself.'"

      "Literally, 'self look for trouble,'" said Tarling. "But there is one fact which you may not have noticed. If you will look at the slip, you will see that it is not written but printed."

      He passed the little red square across the table, and the Commissioner examined it.

      "That's true," he said in surprise. "I did not notice that. Have you seen these slips before?"

      Tarling nodded.

      "A few years ago," he said. "There was a very bad outbreak of crime in Shanghai, mostly under the leadership of a notorious criminal whom I was instrumental in getting beheaded. He ran a gang called 'The Cheerful Hearts'—you know the fantastic titles which these Chinese gangs adopt. It was their custom to leave on the scene of their depredations the Hong, or sign-manual of the gang. It was worded exactly as this slip, only it was written. These visiting cards of 'The Cheerful Hearts' were bought up as curios, and commanded high prices until some enterprising Chinaman started printing them, so that you could buy them at almost any stationer's shop in Shanghai—just

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