.

me," said Sam, his voice trembling. "Show me a way of getting even with her, sir, and I'll go through hell to do it!"

      "That's the kind of stuff I like to hear," said Lyne, and poured out from the long bottle which stood on the coffee-tray a stiff tot of Sam's favourite brandy. "Now, I'll give you my idea."

      For the rest of the morning the two men sat almost head to head, plotting woe for the girl, whose chief offence had been against the dignity of Thornton Lyne, and whose virtue had incited the hate of that vicious man.

      CHAPTER IV

      MURDER

      Jack Tarling lay stretched upon his hard bed, a long cigarette-holder between his teeth, a book on Chinese metaphysics balanced on his chest, at peace with the world. The hour was eight o'clock, and it was the day that Sam Stay had been released from gaol.

      It had been a busy day for Tarling, for he was engaged in a bank fraud case which would have occupied the whole of his time had he not had a little private business to attend to. This private matter was wholly unprofitable, but his curiosity had been piqued.

      He lay the book flat on his chest as the soft click of the opening door announced the coming of his retainer. The impassive Ling Chu came noiselessly into the room, carrying a tray, which he placed upon a low table by the side of his master's bed. The Chinaman wore a blue silk pyjama suit—a fact which Tarling noticed.

      "You are not going out to-night then, Ling Chu?"

      "No, Lieh Jen," said the man.

      They both spoke in the soft, sibilant patois of Shantung.

      "You have been to the Man with the Cunning Face?"

      For answer the other took an envelope from an inside pocket and laid it in the other's hand. Tarling glanced at the address.

      "So this is where the young lady lives, eh? Miss Odette Rider, 27, Carrymore Buildings, Edgware Road."

      "It is a clan house, where many people live," said Ling Chu. "I myself went, in your honourable service, and saw people coming in and going out interminably, and never the same people did I see twice."

      "It is what they call in English a 'flat building,' Ling," said Tarling with a little smile. "What did the Man with the Cunning Face say to my letter?"

      "Master, he said nothing. He just read and read, and then he made a face like this." Ling gave an imitation of Mr. Milburgh's smile. "And then he wrote as you see."

      Tarling nodded. He stared for a moment into vacancy, then he turned on his elbow and lifted the cup of tea which his servant had brought him.

      "What of Face-White-and-Weak Man, Ling?" he asked in the vernacular. "You saw him?"

      "I saw him, master," said the Chinaman gravely. "He is a man without a heaven."

      Again Tarling nodded. The Chinese use the word "heaven" instead of "God," and he felt that Ling had very accurately sized up Mr. Thornton Lyne's lack of spiritual qualities.

      He finished the tea, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

      "Ling," he said, "this place is very dull and sad. I do not think I shall live here."

      "Will the master go back to Shanghai?" asked the other, without any display of emotion.

      "I think so," nodded Tarling. "At any rate, this place is too dull. Just miserable little taking-money-easily cases, and wife-husband-lover cases and my soul is sick."

      "These are small matters," said Ling philosophically. "But The Master"—this time he spoke of the great Master, Confucius—"has said that all greatness comes from small things, and perhaps some small-piece man will cut off the head of some big-piece man, and then they will call you to find the murderer."

      Tarling laughed.

      "You're an optimist, Ling," he said. "No, I don't think they'll call me in for a murder. They don't call in private detectives in this country."

      Ling shook his head.

      "But the master must find murderers, or he will no longer be Lieh Jen, the Hunter of Men."

      "You're a bloodthirsty soul, Ling," said Tarling, this time in English, which Ling imperfectly understood, despite the sustained efforts of eminent missionary schools. "Now I'll go out," he said with sudden resolution. "I am going to call upon the small-piece woman whom White-Face desires."

      "May I come with you?" asked Ling.

      Tarling hesitated.

      "Yes, you may come," he said, "but you must trail me."

      Carrymore Mansions is a great block of buildings sandwiched between two more aristocratic and more expensive blocks of flats in the Edgware Road. The ground floor is given up to lock-up shops which perhaps cheapened the building, but still it was a sufficiently exclusive habitation for the rents, as Tarling guessed, to be a little too high for a shop assistant, unless she were living with her family. The explanation, as he was to discover, lay in the fact that there were some very undesirable basement flats which were let at a lower rental.

      He found himself standing outside the polished mahogany door of one of these, wondering exactly what excuse he was going to give to the girl for making a call so late at night. And that she needed some explanation was clear from the frank suspicion which showed in her face when she opened the door to him.

      "Yes, I am Miss Rider," she said.

      "Can I see you for a few moments?"

      "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head, "but I am alone in the flat, so I can't ask you to come in."

      This was a bad beginning.

      "Is it not possible for you to come out?" he asked anxiously, and in spite of herself, she smiled.

      "I'm afraid it's quite impossible for me to go out with somebody I have never met before," she said, with just a trace of amusement in her eyes.

      "I recognise the difficulty," laughed Tailing. "Here is one of my cards. I'm afraid I am not very famous in this country, so you will not know my name."

      She took the card and read it.

      "A private detective?" she said in a troubled voice. "Who has sent you? Not Mr.–"

      "Not Mr. Lyne," he said.

      She hesitated a moment, then threw open the door wider.

      "You must come in. We can talk here in the hall. Do I understand Mr. Lyne has not sent you?"

      "Mr. Lyne was very anxious that I should come," he said. "I am betraying his confidence, but I do not think that he has any claim upon my loyalty. I don't know why I've bothered you at all, except that I feel that you ought to be put on your guard."

      "Against what?" she asked.

      "Against the machinations of a gentleman to whom you have been–" he hesitated for a word.

      "Very offensive," she finished for him.

      "I don't know how offensive you've been," he laughed, "but I gather you have annoyed Mr. Lyne for some reason or other, and that he is determined to annoy you. I do not ask your confidence in this respect, because I realise that you would hardly like to tell me. But what I want to tell you is this, that Mr. Lyne is probably framing up a charge against you—that is to say, inventing a charge of theft."

      "Of theft?" she cried in indignant amazement. "Against me? Of theft? It's impossible that he could be so wicked!"

      "It's not impossible that anybody could be wicked," said Tarling of the impassive face and the laughing eyes. "All that I know is that he even induced Mr. Milburgh to say that complaints have been made by Milburgh concerning thefts of money from your department."

      "That's absolutely impossible!" she cried emphatically. "Mr. Milburgh would never say such a thing. Absolutely impossible!"

      "Mr. Milburgh didn't want to say such a thing, I give him credit for that," said Tarling slowly, and then gave the gist of the argument, omitting any reference, direct or indirect, to the suspicion which surrounded Milburgh.

      "So