“That was what I was going to say,” said the other. “I usually followed Miss Ardfern from the theatre to her hotel; from her hotel to Trasmere’s house, and home again when she had finished working.”
The reporter and detective exchanged glances. This, then, was the explanation of the mysterious Chinaman who had been seen by Mr. Stott’s servant waiting outside Mayfield smoking a cigar in the cold hours of the morning. It explained, also the appearance of the cyclist in the roadway that morning when the tyres of Ursula Ardfern’s car had burst and Tab had been on hand to render timely assistance.
“I had no idea,” breathed the astonished girl, “is that true, Yeh Ling? Oh, how kind you have been.”
Tab saw tears in her eyes and wished that he, and not this uninteresting Chinaman, had been the person who excited her gratitude.
“Kindness is a relative term,” said Yeh Ling. He had brought his feet up on a chair and was rolling a cigarette; he had asked permission with his eyes and as Ursula nodded, he lit it with a quick flick of his fingers, a match having appeared, as it seemed, out of space, and carefully replaced the stalk in a match-box. “Was it kindness that you saved the life of one who is to me the light of my eyes and the inspiration of my soul, if you will forgive what may seem to you, a writer, Mr. Holland, a piece of flowery orientalism, but which is to me the quintessence of sincerity.”
Then without preamble he told his story; a story which was only half-known to the girl.
“I was in this peculiar position,” he said, “that I was a rich man or a poor man, whichever way the great law of this country interprets an agreement I made with Shi Soh. Shi Soh you know as ‘Trasmere’ and that, of course, is his name. On the Amur River we called him Shi Soh. I came to this country many years ago and worked in the restaurant of which I am now proprietor. I do not mean the Golden Roof, but the little place in Reed Street. The man who owned it lost all his money at Fan-tan, and I bought it a bargain. You may wonder why a man of education, and the son of a great Clan should be here in this country, playing the humble part of waiter in a Chinese restaurant. I might tell you,” he said simply and without conscious humour, “that education in China, when it is applied to political objectives is not always popular, and I left China hurriedly. That, however, is all past. The Manchu has gone, the old Empress, the Daughter of Heaven is dead, and Li Hung is asleep on the Terraces of the Night.
“I was making slow progress when Mr. Trasmere came one night. I did not recognize him at first. When I knew him first he was a very strong, healthy man, with a reputation for being cruel to his employees. I have known him to burn men to death in order to make them reveal where they had hidden gold which they had stolen from the diggings. We talked of old times, and then he asked me if there was money to be made in the restaurant business. I told him there was, and that was the beginning of the partnership which lasted until the day of his death. Three-quarters of the profits of the Golden Roof was paid every Monday to Mr. Trasmere and that was our agreement. It was the only agreement that we had, except one which I myself wrote at his dictation and which placed on record this fact: that in the event of his dying, the whole of the property should come to me. It was signed by me with my ‘hong’ and by him with his ‘hong’ which he always carried in his pocket.”
“The ‘hong’,” interrupted Carver, “is a small ivory stamp with a Chinese character at the end. It is carried in a thin ivory case, rather like a pencil case, isn’t it?”
Yeh Ling nodded.