The dark head bowed, repeating slowly: “I found him dead.”
He threw out his hands in a gesture of resignation.
“His soul had joined his ancestors.” He paused, then went on rather quickly:
“I went up the path as the servant directed me. The library door was open, and after knocking several times I took the liberty of entering. Mr. Warren was lying back of his desk upon the floor; there was a knife protruding from his chest.”
“You say that the knife was in his body?” came Carter's startled voice.
As if surprised at his tone, the Chinaman studied him coolly. “Yes. You seem surprised.”
Carter made no reply to the question, but asked him if he had seen any one, and if he closed the door after he left. To both he answered: “No”; then seeing our amazed faces, he added:
“You perhaps wonder why I did not report his death to the police.”
He was silent a moment, studying the gloss of his nails; then, raising his head, he said:
“That, of course, was not my affair. Then again I failed to see why I should become—what is it you say—mixed up in a violent death. I had nothing to do with it, and it was not my affair in the least.”