“What is it?” demanded the superintendent. “This is Bingham.”
The gasping ceased. A choking voice answered him: “Yee Wing, Mista Bingham. Say, my hab got sick bludder—oh, velly sick. Must go San Flancisco heap quick. S’pose you likee, my can tell olo Chinaman flom Flootvale. He come all light.”
“Yes, old Wah Lee, you mean.” The superintendent knew it would be useless to try to learn the real cause of Yee Wing’s sudden going or to attempt to stop him.
“Olo Wah Lee,” returned the Powder-man, eagerly. “Say, Mista Bingham, I come back plitty soon. Jessie now, I wanchee know, I no lose my job?”
“No, Wing, your job’s safe. You attend to that sick brother and get back as soon as you can.”
“All light. Good-bye,” and the receiver was hung up.
In the morning, when the superintendent reached Sather, he found Wah Lee on guard. The old Chinese substitute was stretched upon an army cot by the dove-cotes, the white-and-brown pug beside him. Yee Wing’s little home was locked. Bingham shaded his eyes and looked in—upon the kitchen, dining and sleeping room in one. Cups and bowls littered the table. Clothing was tossed here and there upon the benches and floor. Each drawer of a high case against the farthest wall had been jerked out and not replaced.
“Something’s up,” muttered the superintendent. “Well, I knew there’d be trouble when that pretty little wife came. Wah Lee, what’s the matter with Yee Wing?”
“No sabe,” declared the old man, and to every suggestion returned the same reply.
That day, and the six that followed, found Yee Wing in San Francisco, where he walked Chinatown continuously,—watching, watching, watching. And as he travelled, he kept his right hand tucked in his wide left sleeve, his left hand tucked in the right one.