Briefly McDowell had classified him at Headquarters. "Either an exiled
prime minister of China or the devil in a yellow skin," he had written
to the Commissioner. "Correct age unknown and past history a mystery.
Dropped into Prince Albert in 1908 wearing diamonds and patent leather
shoes. A stranger then and a stranger now. Proprietor and owner of the
Shan Tung Cafe. Educated, soft-spoken, womanish, but the one man on
earth I'd hate to be in a dark room with, knives drawn. I use him,
mistrust him, watch him, and would fear him under certain conditions.
As far as we can discover, he is harmless and law-abiding. But such a
ferret must surely have played his game somewhere, at some time."

This was the man whom Conniston had forgotten and Keith now dreaded to
meet. For many minutes Shan Tung had stood at a window looking out upon
the sunlit drillground and the broad sweep of green beyond. He was
toying with his slim hands caressingly. Half a smile was on his lips.
No man had ever seen more than that half smile illuminate Shan Tung's
face. His black hair was sleek and carefully trimmed. His dress was
immaculate. His slimness, as McDowell had noted, was the slimness of a
young girl.

When Cruze came to announce that McDowell would see him, Shan Tung was
still visioning the golden-headed figure of Miriam Kirkstone as he had
seen her passing through the sunshine. There was something like a purr
in his breath as he stood interlacing his tapering fingers. The instant
he heard the secretary's footsteps the finger play stopped, the purr
died, the half smile was gone. He turned softly. Cruze did not speak.
He simply made a movement of his head, and Shan Tung's feet fell
noiselessly. Only the slight sound made by the opening and closing of a
door gave evidence of his entrance into the Inspector's room. Shan Tung