so, and while he read, the secret agent stood by the window, listening. When the assistant finished the other did not speak; he remained gazing down at the shabby hordes which eddied and murmured in the street. There was a strange look upon the keen, dark face of the watcher; the eyes were full of singular speculation. At last he spoke.
"Queer things come out of the East,"he said. "Even these people below, who have merely lived upon the western fringe of the Orient, are tinged with its mystery. Every now and then an Occidental eye gets a flash of something among them for which we have no explanation."
"I have felt that frequently,"said Fuller; "but never gave much thought to it. Orientals, somehow, have always impressed me uncomfortably; they seem, so to put it, to have something in reserve. It is as though they had a trick or two up their sleeves which they have never shown us."
Ashton-Kirk nodded.
"A strange and interesting people,"said he. He crossed to the book shelves and took down a thin folio; placing it upon the table, he began to rapidly turn the leaves; a series of Japanese prints fluttered before Fuller's eyes.
"There are numberless things which are held as marking the line of division between the races of the East and West,"remarked Ashton-Kirk. "But,"with a smile, "I have an idea that food and the cooking thereof has more to do with it than anything else. The mental and physical differences are the results of this. And in nothing does the Japanese, for example, show the result of his nourishment as in the matter of art. His hand in a drawing is unmistakable."
He closed the volume of prints; and from a stand took a telephone book and opened it at Eastbury. This was a "Boom"suburb, and as yet had no great population; down the list of subscribers ran the inquiring finger; at length it paused and a slight hissing intake of the breath told of a discovery.
"Good,"said he.
Tossing the book to Fuller, he added:
"Find Dr. Morse's number in Fordham Road."
While the deft fingers of his assistant ran through the pages, Ashton-Kirk turned to a sort of rack; throwing open one of the huge rolls which it contained, he displayed a section of a marvelously complete map of the city and suburbs. It was done by hand and in variously colored inks; every street, avenue, court and alley were clearly traced; each house and number was microscopically set down. This map was the growth of years; each month it was altered in some small way as the city expanded; the care taken with it was the same as that which a business house gave its ledgers. Again the long, inquiring finger began to move.
"Ah! Fordham Road is the first street east of Berkley."
"Dr. Morse's address is 2979,"said Fuller, looking up from the directory.
"The same block!"cried Ashton-Kirk, his finger searching among the lines. Then he burst into a laugh and allowed the spring to whisk the map out of view. "Their houses stand back to back,"said he.
Fuller's expression indicated curiosity; but he had been with Ashton-Kirk a number of years and had grown to know that his utterances were not always meant to be heard. The secret agent took up a bit of brown rice paper and a bulging pinch of tobacco; as he delicately manipulated these, he said to Fuller:
"Do you recall the name of Okiu?"
"It seems familiar,"replied the assistant, after a moment's thought. Then suddenly: "Wasn't he one of——"
"Look in the cabinet,"said Ashton-Kirk.
Fuller went to the filing system and pulled open the drawer marked "OK."After a search of a few moments he turned.
"Yes,"said he, eagerly. "Here he is, and underscored in red. The details are in Volume X."
Ashton-Kirk touched one of a row of bells. A buzzer made reply; through a tube the secret agent said:
"Bring up Volume X at once."
He threw himself into the big chair, stretched his legs contentedly and drew at the cigarette. In a little while Stumph entered, bearing a huge canvas-covered book; this he laid upon a small table, which he then pushed toward his employer. The latter looked at his watch.
"I'm not to be disturbed again to-day,"said he. "And I'll dine earlier—at five o'clock."
"Anything more?"asked Fuller, when Stumph had left the room.
"Look up the trains stopping at Eastbury after seven o'clock. And stand ready to go with me. I may need you."
Fuller went out; and Ashton-Kirk, with a cloud of blue smoke hovering about his head, opened the canvas-covered volume, found the name he sought, and at once plunged into the finely written pages. The minutes went by, and the hours followed; cigar succeeded cigarette and pipe followed cigar; the table became littered with burnt matches, ash, and impossibly short ends. When Stumph finally knocked to announce dinner, he found tottering mountains of books, maps and newspaper cuttings everywhere and in the midst of them was the investigator, lying back in his chair with closed eyes; the only indication that he was awake being that a thin column of smoke was ascending from the pipe.
At seven-twenty that evening a local paused at Eastbury Station; and among those who got off were Ashton-Kirk, and the brisk looking Fuller.
The station lamps were lighted, but were pale as yet, for deep splashes of reddish gold piled high on the horizon line, and long, shaking lines of light shot down the sparsely built streets.
Fordham Road was one of the newest of these latter; its asphalted length showed hardly a trace of travel and its grading was as level as that of a billiard table. The buildings were even fewer here than elsewhere in the suburb; and upon the vacant spaces huge signs reared themselves, announcing the sale of choice sites.
Number 2979 was a brick and brown-stone house with a wide veranda and a smooth lawn which ran all around it. Skirting the lawn was a hedge fence; and a cemented path led to the front door. A tall, angular old woman opened this in answer to the ring. Her eyes were sharp and gray; her face was severe—crossed and recrossed by a thousand minute wrinkles; her hands were large and the veins were blue and swollen.
"Is Mr. Warwick at home?"asked Ashton-Kirk.
The sharp, gray eyes seemed to become partly veiled, the thin lips only moved a trifle when she spoke.
"You would see him?"
Ashton-Kirk nodded; and as the old woman admitted them, he said:
"You are not English, then?"
For an instant she seemed to bristle with indignation; her eyes, wide open now, snapped.
"English! No; I am a French woman, thank God!"
She showed them into a somberly furnished but spotlessly kept sitting-room; a single window overlooked that portion of the lawn which lay behind the house.
"If you will sit down,"she said, "I will speak to Mr. Warwick."
Ashton-Kirk, whose first glance had been through the window, said:
"You have Japanese for neighbors, I see."
The woman's eyes also went to the window; there was a long, narrow stretch of lawn between the house and the one behind it; and this was divided in the center by a hedge fence. Upon the opposite side of the latter, engaged in uprooting the encroaching weeds, was a small, dark man with spectacles and grayish hair. At sight of him the old woman made a gesture of aversion.
"The good God hates all pagans,"she said, resolutely, and went out.
The secret agent smiled.
"I think I should have known her for a zealot even without that,"he said. "The type is perfectly expressed in her."
"She has no love for the Japs, at all events,"said Fuller, as he went to the window.
"The man clipping the hedge,"said Ashton-Kirk, "is a member of the household of whom Warwick neglected to speak."
Fuller looked at the person indicated; he was upon the Morse side of the fence and wielded a huge pair of shears diligently; in spite of the mildness of the evening