Villiers, in a kind of little cell apartment, was having his supper when the detective entered. Before him was a large bowl filled with soup, and in this were squares of thin rice bread, and portions of turkey and duck mixed up into a savoury mess, and flavoured with the dark brown fluid which the Chinese use instead of salt.
"Oh, it's you," growled Villiers, looking up with a scowl, "what do you want?"
"You, my friend," said Naball cheerfully, taking a seat.
"Oh, do you?" said Villiers, rubbing his bleared eyes, inflamed by the pungent smoke of the wood-fire. "I s'pose you think I killed old Lazarus?"
"No, I don't," retorted the detective, looking straight at him, "but I think you know more than you tell."
"He! he!" grinned the other sardonically. "Perhaps I do--perhaps I don't--it's my business."
"And mine also," said Naball, somewhat nettled. "You forget the case is in my hands."
"Don't care whose hands it's in," retorted Villiers, finishing his soup, "t'aint any trouble of mine."
The detective bit his lip at the impenetrable way in which Villiers met his advances. Suddenly a thought flashed across his mind, and he bent forward with a meaning smile.
"Got any more diamonds?"