No one spoke for a moment. Perhaps we were all too surprised to say anything. The calmest one of all was the oriental. His black suit was rumpled and covered with dirt from the path, but his face was calm and impassive. Only the narrow eyes gave any hint of feeling, and the glare in them was not a pleasant one. Then as with a short command Bartley pushed the gun closer against the man's back, we went into the house, down the hall, and into the living room.
As we dropped into chairs, Bartley motioned to his prisoner to be seated. With a slight shrug of his shoulders the Chinaman sank into his seat. Never taking his eyes off him, Bartley walked over to the chair near the table, directly opposite. As he seated himself, the revolver in his lap, the two men eyed each other in a long questioning gaze. There seemed more curiosity in the almond-shaped eyes than fear.
With a little gesture, the Chinaman murmured:
“If it had not been for a chair—”
There came no reply from Bartley. Ranville was studying the oriental with a deliberateness which took in every feature, as though he was trying to remember if he had ever seen him in London. And then all at once the man spoke again. His voice was cool and low as if he were making a social call.
“You know I told you before that I know nothing about the murder of Mr. Warren.”
Bartley shot out but one word, “Maybe.”
Again the eyes of the two men met and for a moment their glances held. Then the Chinaman dropped his eyes to his hands. The long fingers folded and unfolded as though he were playing some game. After a silence he spoke again:
“May I ask what you plan to do with me?”
“That depends,” was Bartley's slow response.