Tab nodded.
“That is where he might have become acquainted with Walters, or Felling, though I am not going to dogmatise on the subject. It is sufficient that he found that Walters was a convicted thief, and that on the afternoon of the murder he sent a telegram (which I have been able to trace) to Walters, telling him the police were coming for him at three. From the moment he saw that telegram delivered, and he must have been watching, to the moment that Walters left the house, Lander was somewhere handy. As soon as he saw the door opened, and Walters came out, he made his appearance. When Walters had gone, he went into the house, passed down the steps into the passage, and found, as he had expected, his uncle working at the table, probably checking some money that had come in during the week—a favourite occupation of his. Without warning he shot the old man dead. Then, looking round for the key, he found that it was not, as he had expected, in the lock, but on the chain about Trasmere’s neck. He broke the chain and took out the key, which was bloodstained. He had a pin and thread ready which he fastened to the centre of the table, put the other end through the keyhole after threading the key, pulled the door to, locked it, and drew on the slack in exactly the same way as you saw and described, Tab.
“I noticed one little bloodstain near the bottom of the door when I first inspected the cell, but could not make head or tail of it. Nor could I understand the appearance of a tiny piece of grit in the ward of the key. Both these mysteries have been solved. When the key was back on the table, he pulled out the pin, removed it from the cotton, which he put back in his pocket, and by some mischance, dropped the pin in the passageway.”
There was another long pause, and then:
“Where is he now?” asked Carver irritably.
The only man who could have supplied him with exact information was at that moment sleeping peacefully on a hard and narrow bed.
XXXIX
Yeh Ling wrote:
“Dear Miss Ardfern: I am giving what you call a housewarming on Monday next. Will you not come? And please if you can, will you persuade Mr. Carver and Mr. Holland also to be my guests for this festivity?”
The girl wrote instantly accepting the invitation both on her own and Tab’s behalf.
“It is a great idea,” said the news editor, “there is a story in that house, Tab. Now, boy, see if for once in your young life you can turn in a really informative column! There is something gone wrong with your stuff lately, the night editors are complaining bitterly about the slush that finds its way into your literary efforts. You are not supposed to refer to the Secretary of State as ‘darling,’ and it is not usual to speak of a judge as ‘beloved.’ ”
Tab went very red.
“Do I do that, Jacques?” he asked conscience-stricken.
“You do worse than that,” said Jacques. “Now—a good story about those pillars of Yeh Ling’s. Get a touch of the flaming east into your mundane exercises, will you?”
Tab promised faithfully that he would.
He had the unexpected pleasure of meeting Mr. Stott at the housewarming, and introducing that gentleman to Ursula. Mr. Stott had a particular interest in Yeh Ling’s fabric, for, as he explained some dozen times, he had put in the foundations.
“I owe you a very great deal, Mr. Stott,” said Ursula warmly. “Tab—Mr. Holland has told me how splendidly brave you were on the night of the fire.”
Mr. Stott coughed.
“There is some talk in town of presenting me with a piece of plate,” he said deprecatingly, “I have done my best to stop it. I hate a fuss about a trifle of that description. The curious thing is, all my family have disliked that kind of fuss. Our family has always hated publicity. My father, who was perhaps the best minister in the Baptist movement, might have gone into the church and become a bishop—in fact, they practically offered him a bishopric—he was just the same. I remember—”
Yeh Ling led them through the house, showing them his art treasures accumulated with some labour, and now seeing the light of day for the first time.
Ursula felt very happy, was childishly appreciative and enthusiastic over every beautiful little statuette, over every example of the naive painters’ art which Yeh Ling showed her.
“Yeh Ling,” she said, when they were alone for a second, “have you heard any news of Mr. Lander?”
He shook his head.
“Do you think he has got away to another country?” she asked.
“I think not,” said Yeh Ling.
“Do you know, Yeh Ling?” she said meaningly.
“I can only assure you, Miss Ardfern,” said Yeh Ling, waving the cool air into his face with a beautifully painted fan, “that I have never looked upon Mr. Lander’s face since the night I saw him at the Golden Roof.”
She was content with this, but—
“Who was Wellington Brown?” she asked in a strained voice.
“Lady,” said Yeh Ling gently, “he is dead: it was better that he died so than in the way you feared.”
She passed her hand before her eyes and nodded.
“We Chinese forgive our fathers much,” said Yeh Ling, and left her to her grief.
From the house he took his guests to the terrace gardens, and then down the broad yellow avenue
