He drove that afternoon to the detention prison where Walters was awaiting trial and had a long talk with him. Yeh Ling was in his parlour, halfway through his long weekly letter to his son, when Inspector Carver was announced. He put down his brush and gazed impassively upon the servant who had brought in the inspector’s card.
“Is this man alone?” he asked.
“Yes, Yeh Ling. There is no man with him.”
Yeh Ling tapped his white teeth with his well-manicured nails.
“Come,” he said laconically and there was something in Carver’s face which told Yeh Ling all that he wanted to know. But there was a fight to be made yet and he was not without hope that this matter of the Trasmere murder and the tragedy that had followed, would be settled in a manner more consonant with his keen sense of obligation.
The inspector did not come to the point at once. He accepted a cigar that the Chinaman offered to him, spoke jocularly of Yeh Ling’s letter writing, asked a question or two about Ursula Ardfern, and at last hinted at the object of his visit.
“Yeh Ling,” he said, “I think the Trasmere case is coming to a solution.”
Yeh Ling’s eyelids did not so much as flicker.
“In fact,” said the inspector, carefully examining the ash of his cigar, “I have found the murderer.”
Yeh Ling said nothing.
“I need very little confirmatory evidence to put the man who killed Jesse Trasmere on the trap,” Carver went on.
“And you have come to me to furnish that evidence,” said Yeh Ling with a touch of irony.
Carver shook his head and smiled.
“I don’t know—I didn’t think you would,” he said, and then almost sharply: “Where are the documents you took from the Trasmere house the night you went there with Miss Ardfern?”
The Chinaman got up without hesitation, unlocked a small safe in the corner of the room and brought out a thick packet of papers.
“They are all there?” asked Carver, shooting a suspicious glance at the other.
“All except two,” was the cool reply, “one of which has reference to my interest in the Golden Roof and that is with my lawyer—”
“And the other?” asked the detective.
“That deals with matters of a sacred nature,” said Yeh Ling in that precise English that sounded almost affected.
Carver bit his lip.
“You know that this is the document I particularly want?” he asked.
“I guessed that,” was the reply. “Nevertheless, Mr. Carver, I cannot give it to you, and if you know so much,” for a second a ghost of a smile lit his brown eyes, “then you will know why it is not forthcoming.”
“Does Miss Ardfern know?”
Yeh Ling shook his head.
“She is the one person who must not know,” he said emphatically. “If it were not for her—” he shrugged his shoulders, “you might see it.”
Carver knew that he was opposed by a will greater than his own and that neither threats nor promises would move this impassive man from the attitude he had taken up.
“What does it matter whether you see this paper or not?” asked Yeh Ling. “You say you know the murderer, that you have sufficient evidence to put him on the trap—but have you?”
His look was a challenge.
“You cannot convict a man on supposition, Mr. Carver. You must prove beyond any doubt whatever that Jesse Trasmere was killed by somebody who had the means of getting in and out that locked vault, and leaving the key on the table. It is not enough to say: ‘I am certain that this prisoner killed his—benefactor.’ It is not sufficient that you can show motives. You must produce the means! Until you can say the murderer obtained admission to the vault by this or that door, in this or that way, or that he employed these or those means to restore the key to the table from the outside of a locked door through which no key could pass, you cannot secure a conviction. That is the law. I studied law at Harvard, and I have the rules of evidence at my fingertips,” he smiled faintly. “You see, Mr. Carver, that the confirmatory evidence you require cannot possibly be supplied by me.”
Carver knew that he was speaking no more than the truth; that he was against a dead wall unless some human eye had witnessed the murder, and the method by which the murderer escaped.
The logic of the Chinaman’s criticism was irresistible, and Carver, who had seen success within reach, experienced a sense of failure at the very moment when he thought that all his efforts were coming to fruition.
“Then tell me this,” he said. “I understand that on several occasions you have been followed by this Man in Black. Have you any idea who he is?”
“Yes,” said the other without hesitation, “but what is the value of my ideas? I could not swear to any facts, and facts are the meat and drink of juries, Mr. Carver.”
Carver got up and sighed heavily, and hearing him Yeh Ling broke into a fit of silent laughter.
“I am sorry,” he apologised, “but I am thinking of my favorite poem,” his eyes twinkled. “You remember the other gentleman who ’rose with a sigh, and he said, ‘Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour. …’ ”
“I shall certainly not ‘go the Heathen Chinee,’ ” said Carver good-humouredly, “not for the moment. What I like about you, Yeh Ling, is your refreshing sanity. I don’t know that I have ever dealt with a man—shall I say fought with a man?—who would have given me greater pleasure to fence.”
The Chinaman performed a deep kowtow and his mock humility amused Carver long after he had left the shadow of the Golden Roof.
Yeh Ling, who seldom made any personal effort for the comfort of his guests, paid particular attention to the preparations which were
