Luke Froy turned his head aside to keep the old man from seeing the look of pathos that had come over his features.
“There is one bad thing,” said Shellmann. “Somewhere in the paper I read that the secret service is investigating. They did that before. I do not like them, Luke.”
“They can do nothing,” said the Chinaman.
“I suppose not.” The old man stared from the window. “You mail each letter from a different post box, Luke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That one package you received some time ago. The poison from Loy Rook. You did not mail that, did you?”
“No, sir. I told you all about it at the time. I left the box of li-shun on the doorstep of the empty house on Ninety-eighth Street and came back here immediately, as you instructed me.”
“I recall it now, Luke,” said the old man. His tone suddenly changed. “So poor Loy Rook is dead. He was a good friend to me, Luke. I knew him in Shanghai thirty years ago. At the time I adopted you, Luke.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He helped me, Luke, when times were hard two years ago. Then that day you came back from his place — ah! That was the beginning of this wonderful life!”