As Arnaud spread the paper, his eyes rested upon a paragraph relating to the death of Stephen Laird. It was an exact account of the man’s demise, and gave the conductor’s version of everything he had heard the dying man say.
What was the meaning of the statement, “Tag A,” the last message that Laird had tried to give? That was a mystery. The newspaper paragraph also stated that the envelope scrawled with 806, Aldebaran Hotel, had been found in the dead man’s pocket.
Henry Arnaud smiled as he scanned that notice. It explained his presence here tonight. He had chosen this room by design, not by accident.
The light that shone upon Henry Arnaud’s face revealed a countenance that was both distinctive and unusual. Henry Arnaud was possessed of firmly molded features that appeared almost as if they had been chiseled by a human hand. They gave a quiet, motionless expression to his countenance.
One could not have told the age of this man. Forty years might have been a fair estimate, but its accuracy could not have been more than speculative.
He was a being with a human mask, whose face became more inscrutable as it was examined closer. In the proximity of the light, it was even more impressive than in the poorly illuminated lobby. Arnaud’s eyes were an amazing factor. They sparkled with a glow that boded mystery.
Slowly, Henry Arnaud raised his hand and extinguished the light beside the bed. The room was now in total darkness. No sign existed of its human occupant.
Henry Arnaud had not stirred from his chair. But now, his eyes were turned toward the window.
Blocks away, they saw the glow of an illuminated district. Henry Arnaud was looking toward the strangest and most fascinating district of America — San Francisco’s Chinatown.
The lights from that cluster of steep-pitched streets betokened a merging of Occidental invention with the glamour of the Orient. There, within sight of this hotel, dwelt the largest settlement of Chinese outside of China itself.