The man leaned back in his chair as coolly as if he was sitting in some club. Through his narrow half-shut eyes he watched the smoke as it curled to the ceiling. But speak he did not, and the glances which he gave us all in turn were very impersonal. Though he knew what we were waiting for yet he showed no anxiety or, for that matter, not the slightest sign of interest.
At length, just when I was beginning to wonder if they would ever come, there was the sound of a car—a car which came up the drive. In a bored manner Ranville rose to his feet and went out into the hall. He returned in a second with the chief followed by one of the village policemen. The chief's hair was unbrushed and he was wearing no hat. It needed but a glance to tell that his being roused from a sound sleep had not improved his disposition.
He came into the room with the heavy swaying walk he had, but paused when he had his first glimpse of the Chinaman sitting in the chair. After a few words with Bartley he went over to the oriental and touched him on the shoulder. At the touch the Chinaman muttered something in Chinese. His eyes flared but without protest he rose and, obeying the chief's gesture, started to the door.
With a word to his policeman the chief turned to Bartley. He was informed I had given him all the information he needed. The Chinaman had been caught in the house and a charge of attempted burglary could stand on the docket. But he very strongly urged the chief to keep a careful eye on the man until he had him in jail. To this the chief grunted some reply and with revolver in hand started for the door. Reaching it he gave the Chinaman a command, and they went out with him between the chief and his policeman.
As the sound of their car died away Ranville turned to Bartley:
“Wager you a couple of pounds if they are not careful that chap never reaches the police station. He is a pretty cold proposition.”
Bartley agreed to this, and then I asked him if he believed the story the man had told. He was silent for a while as if running it over in his mind then replied:
“I think in the main he probably told the truth. Don't you, Ranville?”
Ranville admitted he thought that was so. Within certain limits the man had told the truth but not all the truth. He said that he thought his explanation as to why Warren had in his possession a box containing opium was the truth. And he agreed also that unless one wished to think the scientist was engaged in smuggling the stuff there could be no other reasonable explanation. But there were a few other things he wanted to know. First, did the Chinaman know anything about the murder? Was his story of finding the door of the library open, and then walking in and discovering Warren dead, true? If it was, he could see nothing unreasonable in the fact the man never notified the authorities that he had found a murdered man. He might be held under suspicion himself and to a Chinese mind the murder anyway was none of his affair. It was because of this, because also he had told us the story of the discovery of the body, that he had an idea the man knew nothing about the murder itself. That was his idea but after all he was not sure.
It was at this point I broke into his rather disconnected monologue to say: