“Me afraid,” he admitted frankly. “Strange men this end and that end of street. Me no like it. Ah!”
The front door bell rang softly; it was a timid, hesitating ring, as though some one had but feebly touched the knob. Foo Cha and his master looked at one another in silence. There was something almost ominous in that gentle peal.
“You must see who it is, Foo Cha,” Mr. Sabin said. “It may be Knigenstein come early; if so, show him in at once. To everybody else the house is empty.”
Foo Cha bowed silently and withdrew. He struck a match in the dark passage, and lit the hanging gas-lamp. Then he opened the door cautiously.
One man alone was standing there. Foo Cha looked at him in despair; it was certainly not Knigenstein, nor was there any sign of his carriage in the street. The stranger was a man of middle height, squarely built and stout. He wore a long black overcoat, and he stood with his hands in his pockets.
“What you want?” Foo Cha asked. “What you want with me?”
The man did not answer at once, but he stepped inside into the passage. Foo Cha tried to shut the door in his face, but it was like pushing against a mountain.
“Where is your master?” he asked.
“Master? He not here,” Foo Cha answered, with glib and untruthful earnestness. “Indeed he is not here—quite true. He come to-morrow; I preparing house for him. What do you want? Go away, or me call policeman.”