“You clum b’long me,” was the enigmatic message uttered in the detective’s ear.
“Why should I go along with you?” Blake calmly inquired.
“You clum b’long me,” reiterated the Chinaman. The finger again touched the detective’s arm. “Clismas!”
Blake rose, at once. He recognized the code word of “Christmas.” This was the messenger he had been awaiting.
He followed the figure down the narrow stairway, through the sliding door, out into the many-odored street, foul with refuse, bisected by its open sewer of filth, took a turning into a still narrower street, climbed a precipitous hill cobbled with stone, turned still again, always overshadowed and hemmed in by tall houses close together, with black-beamed lattice doors through which he could catch glimpses of gloomy interiors. He turned again down a wooden-walled hallway that reminded him of a Mott Street burrow. When the Chinaman touched him on the sleeve he came to a stop.
His guide was pointing to a closed door in front of them.
“You sabby?” he demanded.
Blake hesitated. He had no idea of what was behind that door, but he gathered from the Chinaman’s motion that he was to enter. Before he could turn to make further inquiry the Chinaman had slipped away like a shadow.
IX
Blake stood regarding the door. Then he lifted his revolver from his breast pocket and dropped it into his side pocket, with his hand on the butt. Then with his left hand he quietly opened the door, pushed it back, and as quietly stepped into the room.