The head extended through the opening, and turned downward toward the street below, a drop of sixty feet. It appeared again at the side window. Here, too, it inspected a sheer drop of more than sixty feet.
The wicked face turned its gaze toward the distant glow of Chinatown. There, the sign of the Mukden Theater still displayed its roving change of lights. But the luminous circle at the top now presented a blank center. The two glaring spots of green had disappeared.
The Chinaman turned his eyes back into the room. His hands were buried against his body. The knife was there, waiting.
Ten minutes went by; then the crouching figure went back across the room and tiptoed to the other side of the hall. The door of 806 was closed and locked. But the tricked assassin waited, wondering.
Within the room, the dim glare of the distant lights was totally obscured by a black shadow in the window. Henry Arnaud had returned. He went noiselessly to his suitcase and took it with him to the window. He affixed the handle of the bag to a thin, suspended rope.
His body — virtually invisible — swung from the window. Long arms, reaching upward gripped a protruding row of bricks below the roof. With amazing agility, the man ascended and drew himself to safety. His bag came, up as he pulled the slender rope.
Across the roof he strode, toward the rear of the hotel. He slid down a wall to a lower building. His form seemed to dwindle away and disappear. His further descent was an action unseen.
Henry Arnaud had gone. He did not reappear. But in his stead, a tall, black-clad man arrived at the end of a narrow street, a block from the Aldebaran Hotel.
Stooping in the gloom, he compressed his suitcase into a small, compact bundle that disappeared beneath the flowing cloak that he wore. From beneath his slouch hat, this man peered forward with shrewd, gleaming eyes.
There, in the silence, hidden lips laughed, and their low, throbbing mockery made an eerie sound on the night air.